On the day after the priest's funeral Kilbride came to me with that news which sent me north. He had the week's gazette in his hand, “Have you heard the latest?” he cried. “It is just what I expected,” he went on. “They have made use of your information and set you aside. Here's the tidings of Conflans' defeat. Hawke came down on him off Brest, drove him back from the point of Quiberon to the coast near the mouth of the Vilaine, sank four ships, captured two, and routed the enemy. The invasion is at an end.”
“It is gallant news!” I cried, warm with satisfaction.
“Maybe,” said he indifferently, “but the main thing is that Paul Greig, who put the Government in the way of taking proper steps, is here in cheap lodgings with a charge on his head and no better than ever he was. Indeed, perhaps he's worse off than ever he was.”
“How is that?”
“Well, they ken where you are, for one thing, and you put yourself in their power. I am one that has small faith in Governments. What will hinder them to clap you in jail and save another reward like the first one Pitt told you about? I would never put it past a Sassenach of the name.”
Then I told him it had been in my mind ever since I had seen the Minister to go to Edinburgh and give myself up to the authorities.
“Are ye daft?” he cried, astonished.
I could only shrug my shoulders at that.
“Perhaps you fancy this business of the invasion will help you to get your neck out of the loop? I would not lippen on a Government for ten minutes. You have saved the country—that's the long and the short of it; now you must just be saving your own hide. There's nothing for us but the Continent again, and whether you're in the key for that or not, here's a fellow will sleep uneasy till he has Europe under his head.”
Even at the cost of parting with Kilbride I determined to carry out my intention of going to Edinburgh. With the priest gone, no prospect of Mr. Pitt taking the first step, and Kilbride in the humour for a retreat, I decided that the sooner I brought matters to a head the better.