Sir Jasper had glanced round, had seen a sheer wall of rock, twenty paces behind him, from which some farmer long ago had quarried the stones for his homestead on the moor above. He had chosen his vantage-ground; and still, through all this talk that gained a few moments by the way, he had only the one, simple-minded plan--to get his back to the wall, and fight single-handed till he dropped, and give his life to earn for his Prince a few more precious moments. He edged his horse backward gently--pretending that it was fidgeting on the curb--and drew near the quarry-face. He thought of Windyhough, of his wife and Rupert, of the free, hard-riding days behind; and then he thought no more of these things, but only of the narrow track of loyalty. It was so that the Lancashire gentry--the strong men among them--had trained themselves to live for the Stuart cause. And, as a man lives, so he finds himself prepared to die. “You’re the Prince’s watch-dog,” said Goldstein. “May be. I wish he had a better.” “He’s somewhere near then.” “That is vastly probable, sir.” Sir Jasper glanced at the hills again, as if seeking counsel. These men had followed the retreat persistently. If he denied all knowledge of the Prince’s whereabouts, they would spur forward up the main road, would come in sight of that desolate, square-shouldered figure who stood, in his own person, for the strength, the gallantry, the hoping against odds, of this disastrous ’Forty-Five. He sat in saddle, looking from the hills to the faces of these one-and-twenty troopers. He needed a ready tongue, and was more accustomed to straightforward action than to play of stratagem. He must keep these rascals dallying for as long as might be, must afterwards lengthen the fight to the last edge of his strength. He had a single purpose, and his hold on it was firm--to keep pursuit at bay until the Prince rode nearer to Langton and the night’s bivouac than he did just now. And as he tried to find words to relieve the burdensome, tense silence, Captain Goldstein blundered into one of those seeming inspirations that lead callous folk into the marshes, as moorland will-o’-wispies do. “The Pretender is afraid of the thirty thousand pounds on his head,” he said, turning to the men behind him. “The watch-dog is waiting here at the turning that leads to his own home; the Pretender is out of sight; the plot is all so childish. Our road lies this way, and you, sir, will show it to us. The Pretender, I take it, is your guest to-night--if we don’t catch him first? You will lead us, sir, I say.” Sir Jasper, his back to the quarry-wall now, could not grasp at once the help this captain of rough-riders was giving him. His mind was set on the simple business of gaining time by a fight to the death, and his hand was on his sword-hilt. “I never led a rabble yet,” he said, with easy condescension, “and I am too old to learn new exercises.”