The coach swung on its way groaning. “Where do we ride?” he demanded. “We go over smooth ground now—a country road—”
“No,” she breathed, and clung to him when he would have risen and looked from the window. “No! we ride aright!”
It was not London’s cobbled streets that they sped over now; smoothly and swiftly they rode along.
“Where do ye take me?” he cried again.
She leaned heavily against his shoulder so that he could not rise.
“Be merciful,” she cried. “Dinna gang to Kensington!”
But her emotion, her passionate entreaties, the strange hint of warning in her voice were powerless to touch his set purpose.
“Neither God nor man,” he said, “can move me—I have sworn to myself to warn the Prince.”
The coach suddenly stopped.
“I also have sworn,” answered Lady Breadalbane.