"My father says he cannot win."
"No; there is little chance of that, methinks."
"And what if he be beaten, Michael?"
"Why, then 'twill be a case of hunt and hunted. But say, Miriam, are many of the gentry coming in to join him?"
"Nay, very few, if any. They are nearly all rough country men, more used to scythes than swords. I pity them, for verily they look like stupid boys let loose from school."
"Yes, yes," I murmured, for my mind was set on other things just then. "Is Ferguson the chaplain with the Duke?"
"Yes; but him I like not," answered Miriam with a little frown. "He may be great and clever as they say, but I go by faces, Michael, and never saw I such an ugly, evil one as his. His little eyes glint out beneath his old torn wig like those of rats, and when he walks he shuffles like a camel. Why the Duke makes so much of him, and trusts him so, 'tis past me to imagine, for verily I would not trust him with my shoes."
"Ah, then he must be bad," said I; then fearing lest my face might tell a tale, I added quickly: "Now for the Great Room, Miriam; I would go there."
She started back from me, glanced fearfully about her, then with a searching look said:
"You would not join these rebels, surely, Michael?"