"An it please you, sir, ’tis not so, and I must speak," he exclaimed desperately. "’Tis unjust to talk thus of those who fought for Monmouth, unjust and untrue. We—they—’twas not a search merely for excitement; ’twas not for evasion of lawful duties, but was to uphold the sacred cause of justice; ’tis—’tis a slander to say else. Indeed, sir, would men risk their lives, their homes, for a jest? Would they fight, as the Duke’s men fought, for a mere whimsey? ’Tis false to say they had no reason, nor grievance. When religion is endangered and when justice is o’erthrown men have grievance enow! You urge the King’s justice," he continued with scorn. "We hear enow of the King’s justice in these times from Exeter or from Dorchester. We shall watch it this week in Taunton an I mistake not. But for the Duke’s men, ’tis unfair to speak of them as though they had been a band of rowdies. They were true men, gallant men, and I would I had been among them." He stopped as suddenly as he had begun, crimsoned to the roots of his flaming hair, and glanced around him with a look of dogged recklessness, as of one who had said his say and cared nothing for what should befall him. There had been a sudden astonished silence, all eyes fixed upon the lad who had dared thus to beard Master Lane at his own table. The elders regarded him with horror, the younger apprentices with awe not untouched with a certain admiration. For Master Robert Wilcox’s opinions were well known. It was also well known that he had intended to join the rebel army had he not been forcibly detained by his godfather, Master Lane, who at the first sign of rebellion had packed the fiery lad off to Portsmouth, where he had remained safe under the sharp eye of his uncle, a retired shipmaster, till the danger had passed. But despite the fact that Master Robert was a somewhat privileged person and, notwithstanding his turbulent spirit, a favourite with his godfather, that he should have dared to enter into public discussion with his master, and upon such a subject, passed the bounds of previous belief. All held their breath in expectation of the sharp reprimand which they knew must follow, and which was, indeed, hovering on Master Lane’s lips, when he was once again interrupted, this time by a member of his own family, a traitor, so it seemed to him, on his very hearth. The Lanes had two daughters. The elder, Deborah, was the image of her mother, a solemn, staid, and eminently practical maiden, not, indeed, without a certain love of excitement, but yet in most points a typical burgher maid. Of the younger girl, Prudence, ’twas a matter of constant wonder how such a madcap could spring from a family so grave, so unemotional, as were the Lanes. Pretty, spoiled, saucy, mischievous, she was the delight of her father; adventurous and romantic to a degree, she was the plague of her mother; and in every respect she was a constant alarm and puzzle to her duller-witted sister Deborah.