"'Tis strange Charles Stuart contrives to evade us so long," remarked one of them. "I begin to think he has escaped."
"Had he attempted to escape, we should assuredly have captured him," cried another. "He hath baffled us by keeping quiet. I doubt not he is still in this wood. Ah! if we could only discover his retreat. That Humphrey Penderel could have helped us to it if he would. He is a lying rogue."
"Colonel James thinks that the malignant prince will be found at Boscobel," observed a third. "But I doubt it. He does not enter a house. My belief is that he is hidden in a tree."
"Perchance in a tree like this?" observed the first interlocutor. "If such is thy opinion, dismount quickly, and climb the tree—even to the top thereof."
"And be laughed at for my pains. No, I will not climb the tree, but I will discharge my caliver into its branches. If I bring down Charles Stuart with the shot ye will not mock me."
"Of a surety not—we will greatly applaud thy wisdom," cried the others.
Upon this the trooper who had previously spoken, pointed his caliver upwards, and fired into the thick of the branches. A loud rustling sound followed the shot.
"I have hit something!" cried the trooper, exultingly. "Peradventure it is the king."
"If it be the king he has taken the form of a bird," cried the troopers, laughing.