Even the townsfolk ceased balancing their ledgers. They saw only one face in this crowded street--the Prince’s, as he stood divided between high purpose and sorrow for the toll of human sacrifice that is asked of all fine enterprises. They saw him as he was--no squire of dames, good at parlour tricks, no pretty fool for ballad-mongers, but a Christian gentleman, with sorrow in his eyes and a hard look of purpose round about his mouth and chin. “Colonel Towneley,” the Prince was saying gravely, “your gallantry has left me no choice in this. God knows how willingly I’d take your place.” And then, because a full heart returns to old simplicities, his voice broke and he stretched out a hand. “Towneley,” he went on, in lowered tones, “we’re in the thick of trouble, you and I, and yours is the easier death, I think. I covet it--and Towneley, journeys end----you know the daft old proverb.” There was a moment’s pause. The rain dripped ceaselessly. The wind struck sharp and cruel from the east, as it can strike nowhere surely as in Carlisle and grey Edinburgh. Yet no man heeded, for they knew that they had royalty among them here. And Colonel Towneley, for his part, began to sob--the tears coursing down his rugged, weather-beaten face, not because he had to die within a week or two, but because he was compelled to say good-bye to one who, in conduct and in faith, seemed nearer to the stars than he. “Towneley”--the Prince’s voice was raised again, for he cared not who knew his old, deep-seated love of Lancashire--“Towneley, I was taught as a lad to like your country. Your men are loyal--your women ask it of you--but I warn volunteers again that they go to certain death.” “Just to another life, your Highness. I have no doubts; believe me, I have none. In one place or another--why, we shall see the Stuart crowned again. Sir, I thank God for this privilege; it goes far beyond my own deserts.” So then there was no more to be said. A great gentleman had spoken, content to take death’s hand as he would take a comrade’s; and when such speak, the lies and subterfuges of common life drift down the wind like thistledown. The townsfolk of Carlisle began to ask themselves if, after all, they had balanced up their ledgers rightly. These gentry, in the east wind and the rain, seemed to pass to and fro a coinage, not of metal but of the heart. And the coinage rang true. Again there was a silence. And then the Prince asked gravely who would volunteer for death. There was a noisy press of claimants for the honour; but first among them was Rupert, putting bulkier men aside as he forced his way forward to the Prince. “I, your Highness,” he said quietly. “I was bred in Lancashire, like Colonel Towneley, and I claim second place.” “And why?” asked two or three behind him jealously.