"You forget, methinks, young lady," said Mr Raymond, as quietly as before, "that you are one of those of whom you speak." "I forget nothing of the kind," cried I, too angry to be civil. "Of course I know I am one of the people. What do you mean? Am I to maintain that black beetles are cherubim, because I am a black beetle? Truth is truth. The Crown is God's, not the people's. When He chose to make the present King--King James of course, not that wretched Elector-- the son of his father, He distinctly told the people whom He wished them to have for their king. What right have they to dispute His ordinance?" I was quite beyond myself. I had forgotten where I was, and to whom I was talking--forgotten Mr Raymond, and Angus, and Flora, and even Grandmamma. It seemed to me as if there were only two parties in the world, and on the one hand were God and the King, and on the other a miserable mass of silly nobodies called The People. How could such contemptible insects presume to judge for themselves, or to set their wills up in opposition to the will of him whom God had commanded them to obey? The softest, lightest of touches fell on my shoulder. I looked up into the grave grey eyes of Annas Keith. And feeling myself excessively rude and utterly extinguished,--(and yet, after all, right)--I slipped out of the group, and made my way into the farthest corner. Mr Raymond, of course, would think me no gentlewoman. Well, it did not much matter what he thought; he was only a Whig. And when the Prince were actually come, which would be in a very few days at the furthest--then he would see which of us was right. Meantime, I could wait. And the next minute I felt as if I could not wait--no, not another instant. "Sit down, Cary. You look tired," said Ephraim beside me. "I am not a bit tired, thank you," said I, "but I am abominably angry." "Nothing more tiring," said he. "What about?" "Oh, don't make me go over it! I have been talking to a Whig." "That means, I suppose, that the Whig has been talking to you. Which beat? I beg pardon--you did, of course." "I was right and he was wrong, if you mean that," said I. "But whether he thinks he is beaten--" "If he be an Englishman, he does not," said Ephraim. "Particularly if he be a North Country man." "I don't know what country he comes from," cried I. "I should like to make mincemeat of him." "Indigestible," suggested Ephraim, quite gravely. "Ephraim, what are we to do for Angus?" said I, as it came back to me: and I told him the news which Mr Raymond had brought. Ephraim gave a soft whispered whistle. "You may well ask," said he. "I am afraid, Cary, nothing can be done." "What will they do to him?" His face grew graver still. "You know," he said, in a low voice, "what they did to Lord Derwentwater. Colonel Keith had better lie close." "But that Whig knows where he is!" cried I. "He--Ephraim, do you know him?" "Know whom, Cary?" "Mr Raymond."