“The hospitality of Colonel Howard is unquestionable,” returned the boy; “but he has a great reputation for his loyalty to the crown.”
“Ay, young gentleman; and, I trust, with some justice.”
“Would it, then, be safe, to entrust my person in the hands of one who might think it his duty to detain me?”
“This is plausible enough, Captain Borroughcliffe, and I doubt not the boy speaks with candor. I would, now, that my kinsman, Mr. Christopher Dillon, were here, that I might learn if it would be misprision of treason to permit this youth to depart, unmolested, and without exchange?”
“Inquire of the young gentleman, after the Cacique,” returned the recruiting officer, who, apparently satisfied in producing the exposure of Merry, had resumed his seat at the table; “perhaps he is, in verity, an ambassador, empowered to treat on behalf of his highness.”
“How say you?” demanded the colonel; “do you know anything of my kinsman?”
The anxious eyes of the whole party were fastened on the boy for many moments, witnessing the sudden change from careless freedom to deep horror expressed in his countenance. At length he uttered in an undertone the secret of Dillon's fate.
“He is dead.”
“Dead!” repeated every voice in the room.
“Yes, dead!” said the boy, gazing at the pallid faces of those who surrounded him.