“I can, your Grace, without hesitation.”
The moment I had spoken I saw my mistake. So did his Grace, who wheeled round on me like a flash.
“Then, sir, I take it you are in a position to know!”
My blood fairly ran cold, for I saw only too clearly his folly of manner was but a cloak, and that now it was quite as much a question of myself as of Nairn.
“I am, your Grace,” I answered, in my most assured tones.
“Perhaps you are able to produce a muster-roll of the rebel forces—eh, Captain Fitzgerald? That would be highly satisfactory in more ways than one.”
“Surely, your Grace, this is no laughing matter. Your Grace has my word of honour that Captain Nairn was not in Scotland until after Culloden was fought—”
“—And lost—Captain Fitzgerald? Surely that is not the way for a loyal subject to put it.”
“I cannot cross swords with your Grace,” I returned, with a low bow to cover my trepidation; “even if our positions did not make it an impossibility, it would be too unequal a contest.”
The flattery was gross, and only my apprehensions could excuse its clumsiness, but to my intense relief it availed, and he turned to his desk again, while I held my breath expectant of his next attack. But none came. He muttered and mumbled to himself, while we stood stock-still, scarce venturing to look at each other, for the fate of Nairn was hanging in the balance, and a straw might turn it either way. At length he picked up his pen and wrote rapidly for a few moments; then carefully sanding the paper he read it over slowly, still muttering and shaking his head; but at last, turning to Margaret, who all this time had remained on her knees, he handed it to her, saying: