“Is he asking for me?” she said diffidently. “No, my lady. He’s asking for twelve hours o’ sleep--and he’ll get them, if I’ve any say i’ the matter.” “But you’ll be tired, Simon, and I--I am wide awake. Let me sit by him----” “You’re kind,” he interrupted bluntly; “but I’m watch-dog here, by your leave. It happens to be war, not peace--and no offence, my lady.” She turned, aware that a man was in command here; and Simon was left to his interrupted musings. “By the Heart,” he growled, “if only he could find his way! He’s lean and weak; but the lad’s keen, hard-bitten pluck--it’s killing him before his time, it is. He can find no outlet for it, like.” CHAPTER VIII THE ROAD TO THE THRONE SIR JASPER, riding sometimes at the head of his men, at others near the Prince, had little time for backward thoughts during this surprising march. Each day was full of peril; but each day, too, was full of chance humours of the road, of those odds and ends of traffic by the way which turn men’s thoughts from a too deep, unpractical thinking of the high Cause only to the means by which step by step, it is to be attained. In full truth they were following the open road, these gentry of the Prince’s. Marshal Wade was blundering down from the north to take them in the rear. The Duke of Cumberland was waiting for them somewhere round about the Stafford country. They rode through villages and towns that were not hostile--hostility is a nettle to grasp and have done with it--but indifferent or afraid. Throughout this cold and sloppy march, wet through, with the keen wind piping through their sodden clothes, the greatest hardship that met them was the lack of fierce and stubborn fight. The Highlanders grew tired and listless, and Prince Charles, who knew their temper to a nicety, for it was his own, was forced at last to bid the pipers cease playing reels and strathspeys down the road. “With all submission, your Highness,” said Lord Murray petulantly, riding to his side as they marched out of Lancaster, “I would ask your reason. The pipers not to play? It is all the comfort these Highlanders can find in England here.” Sir Jasper, riding near, saw the Prince turn, with that quick, hardly restrained impatience which Murray’s presence always caused. “I gave the order,” he answered, with deliberate calm, “because I know your Highlanders--I, who was bred in France--better than their leaders. Give me an army in front, my lord Murray, give me Wade, or Cumberland, or the Elector, barring the road ahead, and the pipes shall sing, I promise you.”