By this time the soldiers had reached Castlewood. Harry Esmond saw them from the window of the tapestry parlour; a couple of sentinels were posted at the gate—a half-dozen more walked towards the stable; and some others, preceded by their commander, and a man in black, a lawyer probably, were conducted by one of the servants to the stair leading up to the part of the house which my lord and lady inhabited.
So the captain, a handsome kind man, and the lawyer, came through the ante-room to the tapestry parlour, and where now was nobody but young Harry Esmond, the page.
“Tell your mistress, little man,” says the captain kindly, “that we must speak to her.”
“My mistress is ill abed,” said the page.
“What complaint has she?” asked the captain.
The boy said, “the rheumatism!”
“Rheumatism! that's a sad complaint,” continues the good-natured captain; “and the coach is in the yard to fetch the doctor, I suppose?”
“I don't know,” says the boy.
“And how long has her ladyship been ill?”
“I don't know,” says the boy.