Jack Bownas, prudent by habit, was loath to lose customers. He pondered the matter for a moment. “Awa wi’ ye,” he said at last. “I’ve seen the Prince. You may gang ower to Willie Saunderson’s, if you wull. He makes breeks for little-bodied men.” It was the tailor’s one and only gift to the Stuart, this surrender of a customer; but, measured by his limitations, it was a handsome and a selfless tribute to the Cause. Born to another calling, he might, with no greater sacrifice, have set his head upon the block. And through all this to-and-froing of the townsfolk, through the rain and the bitter wind and the evil luck, the forlorn hope--twenty of them--halted at the gateway of the Castle before going in. Rupert turned round to grip his father’s hand. “Goodbye, sir,” he said gravely. “Goodbye, my lad.” And that was all their farewell. No more was needed, for all the rough-and-ready training of their lives at Windyhough had been a preparation for some such gallant death as this. Colonel Towneley marshalled his volunteers in front of the gateway, and the bitter wind drove through them. The Prince, with his shoulders square to the wind, took the salute of men soon to die. And then he drooped a little, as all his race did when they were thinking of the needs of lesser men. “Friends,” he said, lifting his head buoyantly again, “there’s no death--and by and by I shall be privileged to meet you.” Throughout this march to Derby, and back again to wet Carlisle, there had been no pageantry to tempt men’s fancy. There were none now. A score of soldiers, drenched to the skin, went in at the Castle gateway, and the rain came down in grey, relentless sheets. Prince Charles Edward, as he moved slowly north at the head of his five thousand men, was still fighting the raging toothache that the hardships of the march had brought him. And toothache sounds a wild, disheartening pibroch of its own. The night passed quietly in Carlisle, and the garrison was grave and business-like, as men are when they stand in face of certain death and begin to reckon up their debts to God. Colonel Towneley had persuaded Hamilton to get to bed and take his fill of sleep, and had assumed command; and about three of the morning, as he went his round, he came on Rupert, standing at his post. Towneley had the soldier’s eye for detail, and he glanced shrewdly at the younger man. “You were the first to volunteer with me?” he asked, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “I remember your tired, hard-bitten face.” “It was my luck, sir--and I’ve had little until now.” “You should not be sentrying here. We’ve had no easy march to-day. You had earned a night’s rest.” “I did not need it. I asked to take my place here.” Towneley looked him up and down, then tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “By gad! you’ve suffered, one time or another,” he said unexpectedly. “You’re young to have earned that steady voice. Good-night, my lad.”