He was no figure to entice the ladies who had danced with him, some months ago, at Holyrood. It was the man’s business that claimed him now, and he fought out the battle of Stuart pity against the bigger, urgent need.
At dawn he went down, and met the Governor coming up the stair. “Your garrison can have their wish, Mr. Hamilton,” he said quietly. “It seems the better of two evil ways.”
“Can you spare twenty of your men, your Highness? Some few of us have fallen sick since you marched south, and we need strengthening.”
And the Prince laughed, because pity and heart-sickness compelled it. “I can spare anything just now,” he said, “even to the half of my kingdom—the kingdom that Lord Murray hopes to win for me in Scotland.”
“There are better days coming—believe me——”
“To-day is enough for you and me, Mr. Hamilton. My faith, thank God, teaches me so much, in spite of a raging tooth.”
He went out, and in the courtyard encountered a friend grown dear to him during a forward march and a retreat that had given men opportunities enough to prove each other. It was Colonel Towneley, whose name even before the Rising had stood for all that Catholic Lancashire had found likeable—Towneley, who had joined the southward march with the loyal company known as the Manchester Regiment; Towneley, who was resolute and ardent both, two qualities that do not always run together. “Mr. Hamilton is insistent to hold the Castle,” said the Prince, with the sharpness that was always a sign of trouble on other folk’s behalf.
“Yes, your Highness. I learned yesterday that he’s of my own mind. If a hundred men can save five thousand, why, the issue’s plain.”
“He needs twenty volunteers to strengthen the garrison.”
A sudden light came into Towneley’s face—a light not to be feigned, or lit by any random spark of daring that dates no farther back than yesterday. “By your leave,” he said quietly, “he needs nineteen only. I am privileged to be the first.”