"His king!" I echoed. "Must I then fight for James?"
"Certes," replied my father with an astonished look. "For whom else would you fight, my son?"
"I know not, but I hate King James," I blurted out. "He is a cruel man, a poltroon, and a----"
"Hush!" broke in my father, raising a warning hand; and even as he spoke there came a sound like that of someone stirring stealthily among the shrubs outside the window.
We both rose and looked out searchingly, but as there was nothing to be seen, sat down again.
"What was it, think you?" I asked.
"A cat, perhaps; or maybe the dog," replied my father.
But I was far from satisfied; for I had distinctly heard that which, his hearing being somewhat hard, had escaped the old man's notice--to wit, what sounded like cautious, slinking footsteps. However, as the thing could not be proved, I let it pass.
"You spake without due thought, son Michael," said my father gravely. "Such words as you just now used are as dangerous as wild. Kings must vary, even as mankind itself doth vary. There must be good and bad in everything; and sometimes 'tis the kingship that we fight for, not the man. And mark you, Michael, even a bad king were far better than no king at all--aye, a thousand times!"
I felt far from sure of that, but my father was no man to argue with, especially upon one's birthday, so I did not press the matter.