“But listen. Give us the Pretender—we know as well as you do that he’s hiding here—and the rest of you can pass out in safety.”
“The Prince is here you think? Why, then, we guard him, sir—what else is possible?”
“You’ll not give five minutes’ truce? Captain Goldstein is wounded——”
“I’m devilish glad to hear it,” said Rupert, with the gaiety that would not be denied.
“He sends me to talk over this little matter of the siege.”
“Then step out into the open—under truce—and let me see your face.”
Some quality of honour in Rupert’s voice reached the sergeant. As he put it to himself, he knew the man for a fool who kept his word. The snow had all but ceased for a while, and in the keen dawnlight Goldstein’s man looked up and saw Rupert’s grave, clean-cut face at the window overhead.
“Your garrison is weak. We know it,” said the sergeant.
“You lie. Our garrison is strong,” Rupert answered bluntly.
“How strong?” put in the other, trying clumsily to catch him unawares.