And then Prince Charles Edward came into Langton, and these gentry of the Loyal Meet forgot how desolate and cold the dawn had been. Some of them had waited thirty years for this one moment; others, the youngsters and the middle-aged, had been reared on legends of that unhappy ’15 Rising which had not chilled the faith of Lancashire. And all seemed worth while now, here in the sunlit street, that was wet and glistening with the late persistent rain. The Prince rode alone, his officers a few yards in the rear, and behind them the strange army, made up of Scottish gentry, of Highlanders in kilts, of plain Lowland farmers armed with rusty swords, with scythe-blades fixed on six-foot poles, with any weapon that good luck had given to their hands. It was not this motley crew that Sir Jasper saw, nor any of his company. It was not Lord Murray, a commanding figure at another time; not Lochiel, lean and debonair and princely, though both rode close behind the Prince. The Prince himself drew all men’s eyes. His clothes, his Highland bonnet, had suffered from the muddy wet; the bright hair, that had pleased ladies up in Edinburgh not long ago when he danced at Holyrood, was clotted by the rain. He stood plainly on his record as a man, without any of the fripperies to which women give importance. And the record was graven on his tired, eager face. Forced marches had told on him. His sleepless care for the least among his followers had told on him. He knew that Marshal Wade was hurrying from Northumberland to overtake him, that he was riding through a country worse than hostile--a country indifferent for the most part, whose men were reckoning up the chances either way, and choosing as prudence, not the heart, dictated. Yet behind him was some unswerving purpose; and, because he had no doubt of his own faith, he seemed to bring a light from the farther hills into this muddy street of Langton. He drew rein, and those behind him pulled up sharply. The pipes ceased playing, and it seemed as if a healthy, nipping wind had ceased to blow from these sleet-topped hills of Lancashire. The Loyal Meet rose in their stirrups, and their uproar drowned the Vicar’s bells. They were men applauding a stronger man, and the pipes themselves could find no better music. Sir Jasper rode forward with bared head, and the Prince, doffing his bonnet in return, reached out a capable, firm hand. “Leal and punctual, sir. I give you greeting,” he said. And the tears, do as he would, were in Sir Jasper’s eyes. This man with the fair, disordered hair and the face that laughed its weariness away, was kingly, resolute, instinct with the larger air that comes of long apprenticeship to royalty. He and the Loyal Meet and all the ragged army might be on their way to execution before the week was out; but the Prince was following this day’s business without fear of the morrow, as creed and training taught him.