“It's Ormonde's Guards,” says one.
“No, by God, it's Argyle's old regiment!” says my General, clapping down his crutch.
It was, indeed, Argyle's regiment that was brought from Westminster, and that took the place of the regiment at Kensington on which we could rely.
“Oh, Harry!” says one of the generals there present, “you were born under an unlucky star; I begin to think that there's no Mr. George, nor Mr. Dragon either. 'Tis not the peerage I care for, for our name is so ancient and famous, that merely to be called Lord Lydiard would do me no good; but 'tis the chance you promised me of fighting Marlborough.”
As we were talking, Castlewood entered the room with a disturbed air.
“What news, Frank?” says the Colonel. “Is Mr. George coming at last?”
“Damn him, look here!” says Castlewood, holding out a paper. “I found it in the book—the what you call it, 'Eikum Basilikum,'—that villain Martin put it there—he said his young mistress bade him. It was directed to me, but it was meant for him I know, and I broke the seal and read it.”
The whole assembly of officers seemed to swim away before Esmond's eyes as he read the paper; all that was written on it was:—“Beatrix Esmond is sent away to prison, to Castlewood, where she will pray for happier days.”
“Can you guess where he is?” says Castlewood.
“Yes,” says Colonel Esmond. He knew full well, Frank knew full well: our instinct told whither that traitor had fled.