“Certainly. If Miss Meredith will guide you and Lord Chewton to where he lies, I’ll see that Lord Cornwallis gets the letter.”
In the briefest possible time Brereton stood beside Mobray. Yet when the officer in charge of him untied the handkerchief and stepped back out of hearing, Jack’s eyes did not seek his friend, but turned instead to the face of the girl standing beside him. For a moment they lingered in a gaze so steadfast, so devouring, that, try as she would not to look at him, Janice’s eyes were drawn to his, despite herself. With a long breath, as if relieved of some dread, Jack finally turned away and knelt beside his friend. “Fred, old comrade,” he said, as he took his hand.
“Charlie!” gasped Mobray, weakly, as his eyes opened. “Is ’t really you, or am I wandering?”
“’T is I, Fred, come into town with a flag.”
“You’ve beat old Britain, after all, have n’t you?”
“No, dear lad,” replied Jack, gently. “’T is the old spirit of England that has conquered, as it ever will, when fighting for its rights against those who would rob it of them.”
“True. We forgot ’t was our own whelps, grown strong, we sought to subjugate. And you had the better man to lead you, Jack.”
“Ay, and so we ever shall, so long as Britain makes men generals because they are king’s bastards.”
“Nay, Charlie, don’t let the sore rankle through life. ’T is not from whence you came that counts; ’t is what you are. I’d take your shame of birth, if I could rid myself of mine. Fortune, position, and opportunity I’ve wasted, while you have won rank and glory.”
“And now have not one thing to make life worth the while.”