“Well?” cried the Duke. His brows were drawn together. Already he realized that Battiscomb's tidings were not good, else would he be hesitating less in uttering them. “Is Sir Walter with you, at least?”
“I grieve to say that he is not.”
“Not?” It was Grey who spoke, and he followed the ejaculation by an oath. “Why not?”
“He is following, no doubt?” suggested Fletcher.
“We may hope, sirs,” answered Battiscomb, “that in a few days—when he shall have seen the zeal of the countryside—he will be cured of his present luke-warmness.” Thus, discreetly, did the man of law break the bad news he bore.
Monmouth sank back into his chair like one who has lost some of his strength. “Lukewarmness?” he repeated dully. “Sir Walter Young lukewarm!”
“Even so, Your Grace—alas!” and Battiscomb sighed audibly.
Ferguson's voice boomed forth again to startle them. “The ox knoweth his owner,” he cried, “the ass his master's crib; but Israel doth not know, my people doth not consider.”
Grey pushed the bottle contemptuously across the table to the parson. “Drink, man, and get sense, said he, and turned aside to question Battiscomb touching others of the neighbourhood upon whom they had depended.
“What of Sir Francis Rolles?” he inquired.