“Dost mean to say ye let one man kill your captain and take three of ye prisoners?” scoffed the squire.
“One man!” protested the dragoon. “Think you one man could do that?”
“Janice insists that there was but Brereton—but Charles Fownes, now a rebel colonel.”
“You may lay ter it there was mor’n—” Then Philemon wavered, for the sight of the flushed, guilty look on the girl’s face gave a new bent to his thoughts. “What was he here for?” he vociferated, growing angrily red as he spoke and striding to the fire. “So he’s doin’ the Jerry Sneak about you yet, is he? I tell you, squire, I won’t have it.”
“Keep thy blustering and bullying for the mess-room and the tavern, sir,” rebuked Clowes, sharply, also showing temper. “What camp manners are these to bring into gentlemen’s houses and exhibit in the presence of ladies?”
“’S death, sir,” retorted Phil, hotly, “I take my manners from no man, nor—”
“Hoighty, toighty!” chided Mrs. Meredith, entering. “Is there not wind enough outside but ye must bellow like mad bulls within?”
“Ay,” assented the squire, “no quarrelling, gentlemen, for we’ve other things to set to. Phil, there is no occasion to go off like touchwood; ’t is not as thee thinks. What is true, however, is that we’ve a chance to catch this same rogue of a Brereton, if we but lay heads together.”
“Oh, dadda!” expostulated Janice. “You’ll not—for I promised him to tell nothing—and never would have spoken had I not been dazed—and thinking him dead. I should die of—”
“Fudge, child!” retorted Mr. Meredith. “We’ll have no heroics over a runaway redemptioner who is fighting against our good king. Furthermore, we must know all else he told ye.”