Iron bars—a prison—for him—the man who in her own wild way she almost adored!
What did it mean? Was it in prospect, this threatened prison for Holtspur? Or might it mean that he was already incarcerated?
The latter could scarce be—else something relating to it would have escaped from the lips either of her father or his guest, during their babble over the bottle of Hollands?
They had been at Stone Dean throughout the whole night. The girl knew it, and knew how they had been employed; knew also something of the character of the company convened there—enough to convince her that it was some sort of a secret assemblage, dangerous to be held under the light of day.
The unlettered, but intelligent maiden, knew, moreover, that the cavalier was a man of peculiar inclinings—that is, one who was suspected of not being loyal to the king. She had heard all this in whispers, and from the lips of her father—who was accustomed to make no secret of his own disloyalty.
Bet regarded not the republican leanings of the man she admired. Perhaps on this account she admired him all the more? Not because they were in consonance with the professions of her own father; but from the courage required to avow such sentiments in such times; and courage was just the virtue to challenge the admiration of this bold-hearted beauty.
If there was aught to interfere with her approval of Holtspur’s political proclivities, it was a vague sense of his being in danger from holding them. This, from time to time, had rendered her uneasy on his account.
The words of Walford had changed this uneasiness into a positive anxiety.
True, he appeared to have uttered them in spite; but not the less likely was his conditional threat to have a foundation in some fact about transpiring, or that had already transpired.
“There is danger,” muttered the maiden, as Walford went off. “Master Holtspur must be warned of it—if I have to go myself. I shall go,” she added, as she saw her father sink helplessly into his chair, “and this very instant.”