“They did better than that in Carlisle last month,—found true bills against a hundred and nineteen. Their trials will be coming on soon.” “Ay, before the trials at York, no doubt. Well, all I can say is, ’tis bad weather for Scotchmen.” “So many of ’em have come over the border to make their fortunes, ’tis only fair some of ’em should come over to be hanged. Well, he laughs best that laughs last. To think what a fright their army gave us last year,—some of us, that is,—not me. Have you heard if the Pretender has been caught yet?” “Not I. Some think he’ll never be caught,—that he’s been picked up by a vessel on the Scotch coast and got safe away for France.” “A good riddance, then, say I. I don’t begrudge him his neck, seeing there’s no fear he’ll ever ockipy the English throne. The British Constitution is safe. Well, ’tis all over with the Jacobites; no more ‘Charlie over the Water’; they’ll have to make up their minds to drink to King George for good and all. ’Twill be a bitter pill to swallow, for some I could mention.” “You can’t say that of us. My master has always been Hanoverian.” “Ay, ay, being town bred, and a gentleman of fashion. ’Tis some of our country gentry I’m thinking of. Well, they are singing small at present. Lucky for them they didn’t rise and join the Pretender when he invaded us last year.” “There were mighty few English in his army, that’s certain.” “Mighty few. A parcel enlisted at Manchester. And, to be sure, there was the garrison at Carlisle that declared for him. And some had gone to Scotland before that to meet him,—madmen, I call them. But he had no English of any family, barring a few that came with him from France, I hear:—chips of the old block, they were, dyed-in-the-wool Jacobites, from the old breed, that lived abroad for their health, eh? Well, ’tis all over now—all over now.” Mr. Betteridge looked gratified as he said it, but there was a suppressed sigh beneath his content. Had he, too, in his day, sometimes held his glass over a bowl of water in drinking the king’s health? “Except the hangings and beheadings,” he added, as an afterthought. Caleb made no reply, being busy with his food lest his master might arrive before he had satisfied his hunger. The post-chaise which bore that gentleman was now approaching the town from the South, under the guidance of a despondent-looking postilion. Within the chaise, beside the gentleman, sat a young lady, and on the seat improvised on the bar in front was a lady’s maid. Between the young lady and the gentleman, who was middle-aged, silence prevailed. They did not look at each other; and something in the air of both seemed to denote a lack of mutual sympathy.