“You are but losing your time, my friend, and risking your life,” said one of them, addressing Morton; “the Duke of Monmouth will receive no terms from traitors with arms in their hands, and your cruelties have been such as to authorize retaliation of every kind. Better trot your nag back and save his mettle to-day, that he may save your life to-morrow.”
“I cannot think,” said Morton, “that even if the Duke of Monmouth should consider us as criminals, he would condemn so large a body of his fellow-subjects without even hearing what they have to plead for themselves. On my part I fear nothing. I am conscious of having consented to, or authorized, no cruelty, and the fear of suffering innocently for the crimes of others shall not deter me from executing my commission.”
The two officers looked at each other.
“I have an idea,” said the younger, “that this is the young man of whom Lord Evandale spoke.”
“Is my Lord Evandale in the army?” said Morton.
“He is not,” replied the officer; “we left him at Edinburgh, too much indisposed to take the field.—Your name, sir, I presume, is Henry Morton?”
“It is, sir,” answered Morton.
“We will not oppose your seeing the Duke, sir,” said the officer, with more civility of manner; “but you may assure yourself it will be to no purpose; for, were his Grace disposed to favour your people, others are joined in commission with him who will hardly consent to his doing so.”
“I shall be sorry to find it thus,” said Morton; “but my duty requires that I should persevere in my desire to have an interview with him.”
“Lumley,” said the superior officer, “let the Duke know of Mr Morton’s arrival, and remind his Grace that this is the person of whom Lord Evandale spoke so highly.”