“King James’ Tree?” repeated the soldier in astonishment. “Had I known that was the name it went by, never would I have lifted axe against it. But why call you it that?” Alisoun explained. “My grandfather planted it years ago, and dedicated it to the King’s service just before the first James Stuart died.” “So!” exclaimed the Sergeant, looking up with brightening face at the tall pine. “But this is a strange world! Here is the last King James with his crown taken from him and sent into exile across the sea, and here in a corner of the New World I find something that is still called his. King James’ Tree! Madam, it would be a great honour if you would permit an old Jacobite soldier to kiss your hand.” “You are then one of the party that would bring young Prince James back to be King of England,” said Alisoun, as she held out her hand to him, “but yet you are wearing King George’s uniform.” Above them, Stephen leaned breathlessly from his perch, afraid that he might miss a word. He had heard much of the Jacobites, the followers of the Stuart Kings, but he had never thought to see one. “Ay,” Branderby answered. “I wear his coat and take his pay, for fighting is my trade, and when there is no more fighting for King James I must even sell my sword to King William and Queen Anne, and now to King George. It matters not, the army is so full of William’s left-over Dutchmen, of hired Danes and of Germans who cannot understand their English general’s speech, that no one cares for a few Jacobites. Yet I would rather die loyal in heart to James Stuart than live to be dull George of Hanover’s prime minister. You may be sure that King James’ Tree is safe from my hands forever.” He stooped to fling the now useless axe into the bushes and turned to take his horse by the bridle. “Fare you well, Madam,” he said, “and you also, you brave and saucy lad. Keep the pistols, if you will, Mistress Sheffield, as a memory of that King James in whose service I first carried them. And if you can, think not too ill of one who is forced to wear George of Hanover’s red coat and eat his bread while his own true heart is with the King over the water.” He mounted his horse and had turned to ride away when Stephen began to climb down. The adventure was over, there was nothing left to happen further. It was only chance and because the boy turned his head to take one more look across the wide landscape spread out before him, only his own carelessness that made him slip, catch at a swaying bough, miss it and fall down—and down—and down. CHAPTER X “SHIPS OF ADVENTURE”