"He has refused all account of his action," replied the Prince, very coldly.
"And so doing," retorted the old man, "he intended the sacrificing his own honor to mine."
"Said I not you were in league with him?" cried the Prince.
"Indeed, I am so," answered Sir Michael; "but in no treason."
"If the truth will clear his name," said His Highness, "the truth must be said."
"And shall be, if Your Highness grant us breathing time of one short half-hour." And here Ned's valiant advocate paused a little, waiting a reply that came not, for this concession of time he was determined to win, if it were by any means to be gained; having no mind to tell Philip's story without his son's knowledge of the telling, and his presence to bear witness, if need were, to the truth of the tale. And all this while, from the coming of the courier, Mr. Bentinck had perused the papers he had taken from the packet placed in his hands. He now raised his head, and eyed keenly the two speakers, as one that had not missed a word of their talk. "How saith the great Prince," my father continued, "that is come to set free a land enslaved? Thirty little minutes on the dial's face? It is surely no great boon to ask."
And Mr. Bentinck stepped up to the Prince, saying privately, but not so low as to be unheard of all: "Grant it. I have here news that do affect the matter."
And so it came about that the Prince, with a growth of courtesy forced upon him by Sir Michael's bearing, did promise in half an hour's time to hear his story in defence of the accused, asking very civilly his host's permission to walk with his suite in the garden that he spied from the windows until the time were past. So—the Prince and his following walking abroad; my father despatching Simon and others not only with refreshment for the gentlemen, but also great tankards of ale and other good things to the soldiers of the escort; Ned with his guard, moreover, being quartered for this momentous half-hour in my father's little chamber on the ground floor; and I, like Sister Anne in the tale of Bluebeard and his many wives, being posted on the roof of the turret, and, beneath a flag that would not at all, in the light breeze that there was, spread itself to my liking, watching with an old spy-glass to my eye for the horseman that should by his coming make us all happy again—there was left in the hall none but the luckless cause of this present phase of our troubles. M. de Rondiniacque at least thought himself alone; and since he is of a nature very generous and candid, who so unhappy as he?