“You’re not just pleased, like, with all this moonshine about the lad wi’ yellow hair,” said Eli guardedly. “Now, there, maister! I allus said ye had your grandfather’s stark common sense.” Will Underwood did not heed him. He began to pace up and down the floor with the fury that Squire Demaine, not long ago, had likened to that of a wild cat caught in a trap. It was so plain to him, in this moment of enlightenment, how great a price these friends of his were ready to pay without murmur or question of reward. They had schooled themselves to discipline; they were trained soldiers, in fact, ready for blows or sacrifice, whichever chanced; their passing of the loyal toast across the water had been a comely, vital ritual, following each day’s simple prayer for restoration of the Stuart Monarchy. And he? Will listened to the gale that hammered at the window, saw Eli’s inquisitive, hard face, fancied himself pacing again the moorland road that led to Rigstones Chapel and its gospel of negation. His frippery was stripped from him. He felt himself a liar among honest men. He could find no sneer to aim at the high, romantic daring of these folk who were about to follow a Prince they had not seen; for he knew that he was utterly untrained to such sacrifice as was asked of him. To give up this house of his, the pleasant meetings at the hunt or by the covert-side; to put his neck on the block, most likely, for the sake of a most unbusiness-like transaction--it was all so remote from the play-actor’s comedy in which he had been a prime figure all these years. He had not dreamed that Prince Charles Edward, in sober earnest, would ever bring an army into pleasant England to disturb its peace. Eli watched the irresolution in his face. He, at least, was business-like. He had none of the spirit that takes men out on the forlorn hope, and he measured each moment of his life as a chance for immediate and successful barter. “Maister,” he said quietly, “you’ve not heard, may be, the rumour that’s going up and down the countryside?” “Bad news?” snapped Underwood. “You were always ready to pass on that sort of rumour.” “Well, _I_ call it good news. They say Marshal Wade has men enough under him to kill half Lancashire--and he’s marching down this way from Newcastle to cut off these pesty Scotchmen.” Will Underwood turned sharply. “Is your news sure, Eli?” “Sure as judgment. I had it from one of Wade’s own riders, who’s been busy hereabouts these last days, trying to keep silly country-folk from leaving their homes for sake o’ moonshine. He laughed at this pretty-boy Prince, I tell ye, saying he was no more than a lad who tries to rob an orchard with the big farmer looking on.” Underwood questioned him in detail about this messenger of Marshal Wade’s, and from the bailiff’s answers, knowing the man’s shrewdness, he grew sure that the odds were ludicrously against the Prince.