“Yes, yes!” shouted the others, holding their own bumpers aloft, and laughing expectantly.
“Pardon, gentlemen,” said the soft voice of Mark Harwood. “I was about to propose a toast!”
“A toast! A toast!” The dragoons sprang to their feet as one man, glasses in hand. Tom knew by the sudden malice of his Tory cousin’s look that it was for this that he had been invited into the dining-hall. Something was about to occur—something by which he was to be humiliated before these British soldiers. But with flashing eyes he, too, arose and faced the Tory. Mark raised his glass.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “I give you the king.”
“The king!” they shouted and were about to drain their goblets when Cheyne stayed them.
“One moment,” requested he. “Our young friend here does not seem disposed to honor the toast.”
Angry looks came from all sides. The sly, oily voice of Mark Harwood reached Tom’s ears.
“You mistake, gentlemen,” said Mark. “Of course he will join us.”
By his look Mark was daring Tom to refuse; like a flash the latter saw the plan and his cheeks flushed with resentment. The young Tory thought he would be afraid to refuse. In the glance that Tom had darted about the room a few moments before he saw Laura, unnoticed, standing with frightened face in the doorway; come what may he would not be humiliated before her, above all others.
“The toast!” cried the dragoons, eagerly, all their eyes fixed upon him with threatening looks.