“No,” he said, looking at me kindly. “I shall not send you to Honiton. You are not in arms against the King's peace, nor did you come over from Holland with the Duke. I can't send you to Honiton. Besides, I knew your father, Martin. I was at college with him. He was a good friend of mine, poor fellow. No, sir, I shall keep you here till the Duke's crazy attempt is knocked on the head. I think I can find something better for you to do than that fussy old maid, your uncle, could. But, remember, sir. You have a reputation for being a slippery young eel. I shall take particular pains to keep you from slipping out of my hands. But I do not wish to use force to your father's son. Will you give me your word not to try to escape?” “No,” I answered, sullenly. “I won't. I mean to get away directly I can.” “Come,” he said kindly, “we tricked you rather nastily. But do you suppose, Martin, that your father, if he were here, would encourage your present resolutions? The Duke is coming (nearly unprepared) to bring a lot of silly yokels into collision with fully trained soldiers ten times more numerous. If the countryside, the gentry, the educated, intelligent men, were ready for the Duke, or believed in his cause, they would join him. They do not join him. His only adherents are the idle, ignorant, ill-conditioned rogues of this county, who will neither fight nor obey, when it comes to the pinch. I do not love the present King, Martin, but he is a better man than this Duke. The Duke will never make a king. He may be very fit for court-life; but there is not an ounce of king in him. If the Duke succeeds, in a year or two he will show himself so foolish that we shall have to send for the Prince of Orange, who is a man of real, strong wisdom. We count on that same prince to deliver us from James, when the time is ripe. It is not ripe, yet. I am telling you bitter, stern truth, Martin. Now then. Let me have your promise not to continue in the service of this doomed princeling, your master. Eh? What shall it be?” “No,” I said, “that's desertion.” “Not at all,” he answered. “It is a custom of war. Come now. As a prisoner of war, give me your parole.” “You said just now that I was not a prisoner of war,” I answered. “Very well, then,” he said. “I am a magistrate. I commit you add suspected person. Hart! Hart!” (Here he called in a man-servant.) “Just see that this young sprig keeps out of mischief. Think it over, Mr. Martin. Think it over.”