He sat in saddle, looking from the hills to the faces of these one-and-twenty troopers. He needed a ready tongue, and was more accustomed to straightforward action than to play of stratagem. He must keep these rascals dallying for as long as might be, must afterwards lengthen the fight to the last edge of his strength. He had a single purpose, and his hold on it was firm—to keep pursuit at bay until the Prince rode nearer to Langton and the night’s bivouac than he did just now.
And as he tried to find words to relieve the burdensome, tense silence, Captain Goldstein blundered into one of those seeming inspirations that lead callous folk into the marshes, as moorland will-o’-wispies do. “The Pretender is afraid of the thirty thousand pounds on his head,” he said, turning to the men behind him. “The watch-dog is waiting here at the turning that leads to his own home; the Pretender is out of sight; the plot is all so childish. Our road lies this way, and you, sir, will show it to us. The Pretender, I take it, is your guest to-night—if we don’t catch him first? You will lead us, sir, I say.”
Sir Jasper, his back to the quarry-wall now, could not grasp at once the help this captain of rough-riders was giving him. His mind was set on the simple business of gaining time by a fight to the death, and his hand was on his sword-hilt. “I never led a rabble yet,” he said, with easy condescension, “and I am too old to learn new exercises.”
Goldstein was in the company of a gentleman; and, knowing it, he winced. But he kept his temper; for his view of life was bounded by advancement, and he wished to make all sure in this big affair of capturing the Prince, dead or alive.
“You do not deny that the Pretender is making for your own house?” he asked, with a sharp glance. “You’re shepherding him along this bridle-track?”
“I would God that his Highness might lie safe at my own house of Windyhough to-night.” Even now Sir Jasper found it hard to lie outright, though he realised suddenly that there was a better way of service than death at the quarry-face.
As it chanced, however, his words suggested evasion to Goldstein—evasion, and a manifest desire to cloak his errand. “You’ll not show us the way, then? You’re bent on being riddled through with bullets? Your sword’s out—but it can whistle as it will. You shall answer it with musketry.”
It was like Sir Jasper that he had forgotten their firearms when he drew his sword. Long companionship with those of his own breed had led him to expect, instinctively, that a score men, coming up against one, would at least meet him with his own weapon. He laughed at his own simplicity—laughed the more quietly because now it was of no consequence either way. His view of the Prince’s safety grew broader every moment. It was not enough that he should head off pursuit from him until he had reached safety in to-night’s camp at Langton. This company of horse had followed the retreat so diligently that to-morrow there would be danger to Stuart’s person, and the next day after, and every day that found him riding at the rear of his sad Highlanders. The plain way of service, as Sir Jasper saw it now, was to take these nondescript cavalry across country, wide between the Lancashire hills, and so give the Prince a longer respite from pursuit.
“Am I privileged to change my mind?” he asked, putting his sword in sheath again.
“Allowed to save your skin?” said Goldstein, the bully in him quick to take advantage of any show of weakness in an adversary. “As for your mind—you may change it once, my friend, but not twice.”