“Pray, will you tell me in what regiment my son is enlisted?”
“In coorse. In Colonel Wood's fut, my dear; and a gallant corps it is as any in the army.”
“And you left him?”
“On me soul, only three hours ago, having rid like a horse-jockey ever since; as in the sacred cause of humanity, curse me, every man should.”
As Hayes's house was seventy miles from Bristol, the old gentleman thought this was marvellous quick riding, and so, cut the conversation short. “You have said quite enough, sir,” said he, “to show me there is some roguery in the matter, and that the whole story is false from beginning to end.”
At this abrupt charge the Ensign looked somewhat puzzled, and then spoke with much gravity. “Roguery,” said he, “Misthur Hees, is a sthrong term; and which, in consideration of my friendship for your family, I shall pass over. You doubt your son's honour, as there wrote by him in black and white?”
“You have forced him to write,” said Mr. Hayes.
“The sly old divvle's right,” muttered Mr. Macshane, aside. “Well, sir, to make a clean breast of it, he HAS been forced to write it. The story about the enlistment is a pretty fib, if you will, from beginning to end. And what then, my dear? Do you think your son's any better off for that?”
“Oh, where is he?” screamed Mrs. Hayes, plumping down on her knees. “We WILL give him the money, won't we, John?”
“I know you will, madam, when I tell you where he is. He is in the hands of some gentlemen of my acquaintance, who are at war with the present government, and no more care about cutting a man's throat than they do a chicken's. He is a prisoner, madam, of our sword and spear. If you choose to ransom him, well and good; if not, peace be with him! for never more shall you see him.”