The Colonel motioned with his hand that Jobson should proceed with his narrative. "Does Your Honour groan through pain?" inquired the latter; "let me lay you in an easier posture. Did you never hear how Mr. Eustace fought at Pendennis-Castle; when old John Arundel of Terrice thanked him before all the garrison?"
"Thank heaven!" exclaimed Evellin, "that was a public honour!"
"Tush! that was nothing," continued Jobson; "every soldier knew already what stuff Mr. Eustace was made of. Old John called him the hero of Lancashire. After the castle had surrendered, I went with him into Wales; and wherever there was a little fighting we were at it: and when there was none, we lived just as we could; for I did not care about Madge Jobson, and Mr. Eustace said he could not go home because his father had cursed him."
"No, no, no," said Evellin; "he never cursed him."
"I wish," cried Jobson, "the poor gentleman had known that; it might have saved his life."
"Is he dead?" exclaimed the father, in an agony that lifted his debilitated frame from its recumbent posture.
"Shot in cold blood after the taking of Pembroke-Castle."
"By whose order?"
"A devil's-born traitor, as bad as those who cut off the King's head; Lord Bellingham they call him."
Evellin clenched his fist; his teeth were set; his eyes rolled in terrific wildness; Jobson thought him in a fit, and advanced to support him. But with the reckless strength of frenzy, the distracted father grasped the tottering veteran. No object but Bellingham presented itself to his perverted imagination; and in the fury of rage, blended with anguish, he redoubled his blows on Jobson, exclaiming, "Accursed Bellingham, give me back my son!"