"I should not wonder now if 'em 'ere should be the remains of the fires of some of them rebel rascals," said Jack, with wonderful acuteness. "Them is a proper set of waggabones, to be sure. How we did lick the rascals! Didn't we, Bob?" "To be sure we did, Jack," replied Bob. "But you and I aint made much on it, arter all. I wish the captain at the devil--so I do--for sendin' us a unting arter that officer he was a wanting to ketch." "Aye," said Jack; "so do I, from the bottom of my soul. But if we had ketcht him, I think we should 'a gained a prize, seeing that he wur walued at twenty golden pieces by his Highness the Duke. Whoy, who the plague could he be? Not the chap they calls Prince Charles Stuart himself surelye? I should think that his carcase would fetch a deal more money." "A deal more money indeed!" said Bob. "Lord bless thee, I would not sell my share of him for an underd. But why may we not ketch him yet, Jack? Look sharp; do--and see if you can spy ere an oak in this wood, with a head so royal as to hide this Prince Charles Stuart in it, as that 'ere one did King Charley the Second arter the great battle of Worcester. Zounds! what a fortin you and I should make, an' we could only ketch him!" "Pooh!" replied Jack, moving so close to the little holly, that his head and that of John Smith were within two yards of each other--"Pooh man! there beant no oaks bigger than this here holly, in all this blasted, cold, and wretched country." And, at the same time, he gave its bushy head a thwack with the flat of his sword that set every leaf of it in motion, and John's heart, body, muscles, and nerves, shaking in sympathy with them. "Beg your pardon," said Bob. "I was in a great big wood yesterday--that same, I mean, that spreads abroad all over the country, above that 'ere ould castle wot they calls Cawdor Castle. And sitch oak trees as I seed there! My heyes, some on 'em had heads as would cover half a troop! But, hark ye, Jack! Is there no tree, think ye, fit to have a man in't but an oak? Dost not think that a good stout fir-tree now might support a man?" "Oh," replied Jack, "surelye, surelye. This here holly, for instance, might hide a man in its head;"--and, as he said so, he gave the holly another thwack, that, for a few moments, banished every drop of blood from the heart of John Smith. "But your oak is your only tree for concealing your King or your Prince; for, as the old rhyme has it, 'The royal oak is not a joke.' As for your firs, they may be well enough for affording a refuge to your men of smaller mark." "Then you don't think that 'ere feller, wot hangs from yonder fir tree, can be a King or a Prince, do you, Jack?" demanded Bob, laughing heartily at his own joke.