“He’s up to some trick,” cried Mark Harwood excitedly. “There is a Whig spy about, somewhere; and Foster has gone to warn and help him to elude us.”
There was an instant rush for the door; but Lucy Foster stood there barring their passage.
“My father is unwell,” she said, quietly, but with a slight tremble in her voice. “He has gone to his chamber to rest.”
“Ah, is it so, indeed,” sneered young Harwood. “Well, we will assure ourselves of that, Miss Lucy, if you please. Stand aside.”
“I will not!” cried she, defiantly.
“Don’t waste words with her,” growled Clarage. “There is no knowing what her rebel father is up to while we are parleying with her, here.”
“I shall not move!” exclaimed Lucy, in ringing tones. “My father has gone to his chamber because he is unwell—I give you my word for that. Is it not enough?”
“No,” said Harwood. “We’ll see for ourselves.”
“You shall not disturb him. It is cruel—it is a sin—for he is weak and ill.”
Without any further words the Tories sprang at her. But at that same instant the door, against which the brave girl had placed her back, opened behind her; a strong arm drew her quickly into the hall; then the door closed with a snap and the astounded king’s men found themselves facing, not a weak girl, but a tall, muscular youth with a keen bronzed face, steady, cool eyes, and a naked sabre in his hand.