“Upon my word, sir—!” But before she got any further, she saw reason for real wonder. “Eh! speaking of ears, what has happened to yours?”
“Honourably sacrificed in war, miss,” replied Filson, readily; “slashed by a Jacobite officer at the battle of Culloden, four or five months ago.”
“Oh, how barbarious!” cried Prudence. “How could he ever have the heart to do such a thing?”
“Oh, I gave him as good as I got. If you happen to see a handsome young gentleman with his beauty improved by a mark like a heart on a playing-card, under his right eye, you may know that he owes that decoration to me. I did it with a bayonet, miss, and a very pretty job I made of it.”
“Lor, I’m not like ever to see any Jacobite officer.”
“Don’t be too sure. My gentleman is probably somewhere in this neighbourhood. So keep your pretty eyes open, my dear. His name is Everell—Charles Everell—so I was told by a prisoner we took, who had seen our little exchange of compliments: though ’tis scarce like he’ll be travelling under his real name just at present.”
“Ay, for I hear they’re going to hang all the Jacobites they catch.”
“So they are, except the great ones, and them they behead. They’ve already begun the good work in London, both ways. Whether this gentleman is high enough to be honoured with the axe, or whether his case will be served by a halter, I know not. He was in the Pretender’s body-guard, at any rate.”
“But how do you know he’s in this neighbourhood?”
“Because, sweetheart, I saw him yesterday on the road the first time since Culloden fight. Before I had a chance to lay information against him, he had given me the slip. I spent the whole night in trying to get on his track, at inns and other houses. I think he may still be in these parts, and if I can manage it he shall meet his just deserts.”