"I shall go to the main gate of your palace and see who will stand in my way."
"That's ruin for certain," Masham groaned.
"Be easy, my lord. I shall not boast myself your guest."
"Oh, you are mad."
"By your leave, sir," says Harry. "We need not so soon despair, I think, nor you run upon your death. There is something more to be tried. These sentries, they'll be on the watch for a gentleman of your distinction and in my lord's company or of some noble attendance. But a common fellow may pass them. If you would lend me your fine clothes and that great wig, and condescend to my subfuse and bob, there's no one would take so shabby a fellow for yourself. Maybe I might make a show to break out one way, while you slipped past by another."
"And left you to bear the brunt for me? I complain of you again, Mr.
Boyce—you do not much value my honour."
"And I say again, sir, your honour is to maintain your cause. Nay, but what can they do to me? Faith, it's no sin to wear fine clothes. And I—well, I think the Whigs will never bring me into court. I know too much of my father."
"Oh, you are specious, Mr. Boyce," the Pretender smiled at him. "Nay, if all my friends were such as you, I should not be in this queer plight." He put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "How am I to thank you, sirrah?"
"Pray, sir, do as I advise."
The hand pressed harder. "Be it so then."