“What is it, Mr. Stewart?” said Lady Maxwell, and her voice had a ring of terror in it. Sir Nicholas looked up quickly.
“Eh, eh?”—he began.
The young man rose up and recoiled a step, still staring out.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but I have just seen several men pass the window.”
There was a rush of footsteps and a jangle of voices outside in the hall; and as the four rose up from table, looking at one another, there was a rattle at the handle outside, the door flew open, and a ruddy strongly-built man stood there, with a slightly apprehensive air, and holding a loaded cane a little ostentatiously in his hand; the faces of several men looked over his shoulder.
Sir Nicholas’ ruddy face had paled, his mouth was half open with dismay, and he stared almost unintelligently at the magistrate. Mr. Stewart’s hand closed on the handle of a knife that lay beside his plate.
“In the Queen’s name,” said Mr. Frankland, and looked from the knife to the young man’s white determined face, and down again. A little sobbing broke from Lady Maxwell.
“It is useless, sir,” said the magistrate; “Sir Nicholas, persuade your guest not to make a useless resistance; we are ten to one; the house has been watched for hours.”
Sir Nicholas took a step forward, his mouth closed and opened again. Lady Maxwell took a swift rustling step from behind the table, and threw her arm round the old man’s neck. Still none of them spoke.
“Come in,” said the magistrate, turning a little. The men outside filed in, to the number of half a dozen, and two or three more were left in the hall. All were armed. Mistress Margaret who had stood up with the rest, sat down again, and rested her head on her hand; apparently completely at her ease.