Rupert turned, with a grave, disarming smile. Past weaknesses, past dreams of heroism, the slow, long siege of Windyhough, went by him as things remembered, but of little consequence. He felt master of himself, master of them all, and with a touch of pleasant irony he recalled past days. “Because, gentlemen, I am God’s fool, and I know not how to live, but I know how to die. That is the one trade I’ve learned.” There was no answer. There could be no answer. This man with the lean body and the purpose in his face was innocent of guile, and fearless, and strangely dominant. And then at last the Prince smiled--the fugitive, rare smile that few had captured since Derby and retreat. “I believe you, sir,” he said. “To know how to die--there is no better trade to learn.” Then Maurice pushed forward, eager for the forlorn hope, and moved, too, by the old, abiding instinct to stand by and protect his elder brother. And Sir Jasper, unswerving until now, was moved by sharp self-pity. He had been glad that Rupert should prove himself at heavy cost; glad that he himself could surrender the dearest thing he had to the Prince’s need; but all his fatherhood came round him, like a mist of sorrow. “One son is enough to give your Highness,” he said, with direct and passionate appeal to the Prince. “I’m not too old to help garrison Carlisle, and my wife will need a young arm to protect her later on; let me take Maurice’s place.” It was then the Prince found his full stature. In retreat, in sickness of heart, under temptation to deny his faith in God and man, the Stuart weighed Sir Jasper’s needs, found heart to understand his mood, and smiled gravely. “There are so many claimants, sir, that I shall not permit more than one man from any house to share the privilege. As for Maurice, I shall have need of him at my side--and of you--I cannot spare you.” The tradesmen of Carlisle looked on and wondered. This was no shopkeeping. From the sleet and the tempest that had bred them, it was plain that these gentry had learned knighthood. Jack Bownas, the bow-legged tailor, who had held stoutly that kings and gentry were much like other men, save for the shape of their breeks, was bewildered by this scene in Carlisle’s ugly street. He was aware that men are not equals, after all, that some few--gently or lowly born--are framed to claim leadership by steadfastness of soul and outlook. “I’d like to tailor for yond Prince,” he growled to his neighbour. “So you’ve turned Charlie’s man?” the other answered, dour and hard--a man who had yielded to north-country weather, instead of conquering it. “For me, he’s a plain-looking chiel enough, as wet and muddied-o’er as you and me, Jack.” “He’s a man, or somewhere near thereby, and I build few suits these days for men. I spend my days in cutting cloth for lile, thin-bodied folk like ye.” “I’m a good customer o’ yours, and there are more tailors in Carlisle than one.”