"’Tis well and bravely said," he murmured. "Fighting--soldiering! A young man could not make a better choice than that. And, as you know, Michael, I speak from great experience. In the days of good King Charles the Martyr--God rest his soul!--I fought in nigh a dozen battles, counting skirmishes. And gladly would I fight again if I were able. Ah, yes! there is no finer work for any man than fighting for his king." "His king!" I echoed. "Must I then fight for James?" "Certes," replied my father with an astonished look. "For whom else would you fight, my son?" "I know not, but I hate King James," I blurted out. "He is a cruel man, a poltroon, and a----" "Hush!" broke in my father, raising a warning hand; and even as he spoke there came a sound like that of someone stirring stealthily among the shrubs outside the window. We both rose and looked out searchingly, but as there was nothing to be seen, sat down again. "What was it, think you?" I asked. "A cat, perhaps; or maybe the dog," replied my father. But I was far from satisfied; for I had distinctly heard that which, his hearing being somewhat hard, had escaped the old man’s notice--to wit, what sounded like cautious, slinking footsteps. However, as the thing could not be proved, I let it pass. "You spake without due thought, son Michael," said my father gravely. "Such words as you just now used are as dangerous as wild. Kings must vary, even as mankind itself doth vary. There must be good and bad in everything; and sometimes ’tis the kingship that we fight for, not the man. And mark you, Michael, even a bad king were far better than no king at all--aye, a thousand times!" I felt far from sure of that, but my father was no man to argue with, especially upon one’s birthday, so I did not press the matter. "But is there no other king that I can fight for?" I asked. "John Cornish went from Lyme here, as you know, into the Netherlands, fought for the Prince of Orange, and became a captain. Can I not do the same, sir?" My father frowned and stroked his beard, as was his wont when not well pleased. "That is fortune-soldiering," he answered gravely; "a thing I do not favour. For although it certainly hath bred good fighters, ’tis apt to lead to looseness--selling the sword, that is, for money to the highest bidder. Nay, Michael, I would not have my son do that. Fight for your king and country when the time comes, and let that suffice." "But how and where, then, shall I fight?" I asked. "Since Monmouth cut the Covenanters up at Bothwell Brig there hath been naught worth the name of fighting; and although ’tis said the Duke of Argyle is in Scotland with some followers, that will not touch us: he will soon be done for. Nay, sir, I see no chance of fighting here in England. All is peace." "Yes, but methinks it will not be so long, Michael," rejoined my father with a knowing look. "What mean you, sir?" I asked.