As they talked, intent in each other, almost unable to withdraw their eyes from each other, the door opened, and Mr. Solomon Gibbs entered.
"There!—there!" said he, "a pretty sharp watch you keep. You might have been surprised for aught of guard you kept."
"Come here," said Anthony; "sit by the fire and tell me what is being done below."
Mr. Solomon Gibbs shook his head. "You cannot remain here, Tony; you must be off—over the seas—and I will take care of Urith, and have the windows patched at Willsworthy."
"I know I must," said Anthony, gloomily, and he took Urith's hand and drew it round his neck; never had she been dearer to him than now, when he must part from her.
"Oh! uncle!" exclaimed Urith, "he must not indeed go hence now that he has returned to me."
"I am safe here for a while," said Anthony, and he pressed his lips to Urith's hand.
"Can you say that, with the rare look-out you keep?" asked Mr. Gibbs. Then he gazed into the fire, putting up his hand and scratching his head under the wig. He said no more for a minute, but presently, without looking at Anthony, he went on. "Those fellows under their Captain—Fogg is his name—are turning the place upside down; they have visited pretty nigh every house and hovel in quest of rebels, as they call them. The confounded nuisance is that they have a list of the young fellows who went from these parts. As fast as any of them come home, if they have escaped the battle, they drop into the hands of the troopers."
Anthony said nothing, he was troubled. Urith's large dark eyes were fixed on her uncle.
"The Duke of Monmouth has been taken, I hear; he hid in a field, in a ditch among the nettles. No chance for him. His Majesty, King James, will have no bowels of compassion for such a nephew. For the Protestants of England there is now no hope save in the Prince of Orange."