The servant had now answered the tinkling bell, and Frances was too busy acting the housewife to make any comment on his enthusiastic description of what was to be found in the North. Her pale cheeks reddened as he spoke, and he took this for a promising sign. She was convinced that he had as yet no knowledge of his loss, and wondered when and where such knowledge would come to him. She hoped the enlightenment would be delayed until they were near the Scottish line or across it. Then she must tell him the truth at whatever cost to herself, and persuade him, if she could, not to return. When she made her confession, she would be in a position to relate all Cromwell had said to her; show him that the General had given orders which would block any backward move, and reveal his determination to hang the Scot should he entangle himself further with English politics. Yet she had the gravest doubts that these dangers would influence him. She knew him well enough to be aware that his own personal safety weighed but lightly with him, and the very opposition would determine him to try conclusions with it, unabashed by the overwhelming odds against him.
These reflections troubled her until the time they were on their horses once more, when Armstrong interrupted them by crying out:
“Where’s old John?”
“I sent him on ahead long since,” replied Frances.
“Good. We shall soon overtake him. Good bye, pirate!” he cried to the grinning hostler. “May I meet you on the road next time with a thousand pounds on you, and if you whisper ‘Banbury’ to me, I will not lift a penny of it.”
“Good luck to you and your fair lady, sir,” replied the enriched old man, raising his cap in salute. He wished more travellers like the brawny Scot came that way.
“Why do you call the poor man a pirate?” asked Frances.
“Oh, we’re comrades!” laughed Armstrong. “He thinks me a capable, prompt, and energetic highwayman, and admitted on the quiet that he had cut a purse himself upon occasion in the days of his youth.”
“And why does he think you a highwayman?”
“Ah, that would be telling. Suppose it is because I escort the fairest lady in the land? The sex have ever favoured the biggest rascals. No, I shall not incriminate myself, but shall maintain my pose of the amiable hypocrite. Here rides Will Armstrong, the honest man, if you take his own word for it. But the hostler knows better. He sees secret comings and goings, and draws his sage conclusions. Banbury! O Lord, I shall never forget Banbury! It is a place of mystery, the keeper of dark secrets and sudden rides, of midnight theft and of treachery. Ask the Broughton road, where Cromwell lies, to reveal what it knows. Things happen along that track which the King knows nothing of, and his royal signature takes journeys that he never counted upon.”