Then he sprang to his feet and shook himself like a dog.
'Sister,' he said, 'thou shouldst have awakened me earlier. I have slept all the day. Well, we are safe, so far.' Here he looked cautiously out of the linney towards the wood and the road. 'So far, I say, we are safe. I take it we had best not wait until to-morrow, but budge to-night. For not only will the troopers scour the country, but they will offer rewards; and the gipsies—ay, and even the country-folk—will hasten to give information out of their greedy hearts. We must budge this very night.'
'Whither shall we go, Barnaby?'
He went on as if he had not heard my question.
'We shall certainly be safe here for to-night; but for to-morrow I doubt. Best not run the chance. For to-day their hands are full: they will be hanging the prisoners. Some they will hang first and try afterwards, some they will try first and hang afterwards. What odds if they are to be hanged in the end? The cider orchards never had such fruit as they will show this autumn, if the King prove revengeful—as, to judge by his sour face, he will be.'
Here he cursed the King, his sour face, his works and ways, his past, his present, and his future, in round language, which I hope his wounded father did not hear.
'We must lie snug for a month or two somewhere, until the unlucky Monmouth men will be suffered to return home in peace. Ay! 'twill be a month and more, I take it, before the country will be left quiet. A month and more—and Dad not able to crawl!'
'Where shall we lie snug, Barnaby?'
'That, Sister, is what I am trying to find out. How to lie snug with a couple of women and a wounded man who cannot move? 'Twas madness of the poor old Dad to bring thee to the camp, Child. For now we cannot—any of us—part company, and if we stay together 'twill maybe bring our necks to the halter.'