Murray, too, drew rein, glanced hard and uncivilly at Sir Jasper, and turned with a smile to his aide-de-camp. “The Lancashire manner is curt, Mr. Johnstone,” he said. “What is this gentleman’s name again? He joined us at Langton, I remember, and his Highness was pleased to overdo the warmth of his greeting. It is a way the Prince has, and it answers well enough with the women, to be sure.” “My name is Jasper Royd,” broke in the other, his temper at a smooth white heat, “and it is entirely at your service after this campaign is ended. I permit no man to sneer at his Highness, and you’ll give me satisfaction later.” Lord Murray took a pinch of snuff, smiled again behind his hand at Johnstone. “There’s something--what shall I say, sir?--something old-fashioned in your loyalty, though it sits well enough on you, if ’twere a play we acted.” “My loyalty is--just loyalty. There’s no change of fashion can alter the clean faith of a man.” “Your pardon, but was this all you had to say to me? The wind is shrewd, Sir Jasper, and we can discuss loyalty--and punctilio and the duel you are eager for--when we next find an inn to shelter us.” Murray’s harsh, narrow egotism had seldom shown to worse advantage than now. Since first Sir Jasper rode into Langton Street with the big air about him that simple-minded gentlemen are apt to carry, since Murray had seen the Prince’s welcome, his jealousy had taken fire. It had slumbered during the last days of hardship, but this meeting on the road had quickened it. “I had more to say, much more,” Sir Jasper answered, quiet and downright. “Again I ask you to bid Mr. Johnstone ride behind.” “No, by your leave; he has my full confidence. You may speak your mind at once; but be speedy, for I would remind you that this is not midsummer.” Young Johnstone laughed, as youth will at unlikely times; and the laugh added a fine edge to Sir Jasper’s temper. “Then, as you’ll have it so, Mr. Johnstone shall be a listener. It is of this Rising I mean to speak--and of your share in it. You are young, Lord Murray, and I am getting old. You’re riding to the warfare you learned in set battles overseas, but we--the Prince, God bless him! and the Highlanders and my good lads from Lancashire--are out on a wider road.” “You will explain?” drawled Murray. “D’ye think five thousand of us, ill-armed, can win to London by rules of war and maps and compasses?” “I did not think from the first we had a chance of reaching London,” snapped the other. “Yes,” put in Sir Jasper adroitly. “We knew as much. You said, before Annan was reached, that we’d no chance of getting beyond Carlisle.” “Who told you that?” said Murray, flurried and unguarded. “Oliphant of Muirhouse, who never lies, my lord. Well, we’re here in Staffordshire, and the London road still open to us; and your prophecy, somehow, has miscarried.”