“Nein, Colonel!” he said at length. “We dare not.”
“What dares not your Royal Highness?”
“That you propose. You forget the terms of capitulation? To infringe them would cause scandal, and of that we Cavaliers have had accusation already—as much as we can well carry. Ha-ha-ha!”
The laugh told how little he cared for it, and how lightly it sat upon his conscience.
“Your Highness, I’m aware of all that,” persisted Lunsford. “But these are excepted people—that is, the father.”
“How so?”
“Because of his being one of the King’s worst and bitterest enemies. But that’s not all. He’s been a recusant—is still. I myself attempted to levy on him for a loan by Privy Seal—three thousand pounds—the King required. I not only failed to get the money, but came near being set upon, and possibly torn to pieces, by a mob of Dean Foresters—very wolves—his adherents and retainers. Surely all that should be sufficient justification for the detaining of him and his.”
Prompted by his vile passions again, the Royal Sybarite seemed inclined to act upon the diabolical counsel. But, although the war’s history already bristled with chronicles of crime, nothing quite so openly scandalous, as that would be, had yet appeared upon its pages. Many such there were afterwards, when this Prince and his gallants had more corrupted England’s people, and better accustomed them to look lightly on the breaches of all law and all decency.
At a later period Rupert would not have regarded them, as indeed he did not twelve months after in this same city of Bristol. Of his behaviour then thus wrote one of his attached servitors to the Marquis of Ormonde,—
“Prince Rupert is so much given to his ease and pleasure that every one is disheartened that sees it. The city of Bristol is but a great house of bawdry.”