"Ah! 'Twas you gave the alarm. Good boy; zeal; excellent; but a little mistake; yes, Grinsell explained; a mistake, Desmond."
The Squire spoke hurriedly, disconnectedly, with an embarrassment even greater than Desmond's.
"But, sir," the boy began, "I saw----"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the old man. "I know all about it. But Grinsell's explanation--yes, I know all about it. I am obliged to you, Desmond; but I am satisfied with Grinsell's explanation; I shall go no further in the matter."
He groaned and put his hand to his head.
"Are you ill, Sir Willoughby?" asked Desmond anxiously.
The Squire looked up; his face was an image of distress. He was silent for a moment; then said slowly:
"Sick at heart, Desmond, sick at heart. I am an old man--an old man."
Desmond was uncomfortable. He had never seen the Squire in such a mood, and had a healthy boy's natural uneasiness at any display of feeling.
"You see that portrait?" the Squire went on, pointing wearily with his stick at the head of a young man done in oils. "The son of my oldest friend--my dear old friend Merriman. I never told you of him. Nine years ago, Desmond--nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and hearty a man as I myself, and George was the apple of his eye. They were for the King--God save him!--and when word came that Prince Charles was marching south from Scotland they arranged secretly with a party of loyal gentlemen to join him. But I hung back, I had not their courage: I am alive, and I lost my friend."