"Bed be damned," said Lancaster, cheerfully. "Why that bereaved smile? More bad news?"
Fat Jack sat down panting, leaning his hands on his sword.
"Bad news? Well, sir, that's hardly the word, we're a little nearer the end, perhaps." He watched the long procession of the sick—borne one by one on stretchers up the stairway. "I'd rather the end came quick."
"Oh, go and be an angel," said Lancaster, scornfully. "Go and croak at the moon, Jack, weep to the clouds all alone on a damp battlement. We've had more fun and adventure this last month."
Browne laughed heartily.
"Well," old Branscombe smiled at the two lads; "I suppose I'm a fool," he wheezed. "Just now I was talking with one of our wounded men—Bill Sothern. He saw the whole Republican army in camp, two hundred and fifty thousand men at least, the pick of the Midland counties, well fed, in fine condition, and our poor half-starved troops, what can they do? How could our Lady so much as offer battle. The thing was hopeless—she was right to decline. Well, to-day, the Republican colours are flying on Hampstead Hill. To-morrow, their flag will be hoisted here."
"Come," said Lancaster, "cheer us up—go on, Jack."
"I wonder"—Jack grunted, looking steadily at the Prince. "You, sir, may be pleased. I'm of a different make. The French and German armies landed yesterday, covering the coast from Dungeness to Portsmouth—half a million men, with two hundred ships of the line to sweep our army away as they advance."
"Anything more?" asked Tom of Lancaster.
"The Russian Fleet has appeared off the coast of Essex."