"The king shall enjoy his own again." Patience did not feel disposed to cry. She liked the child, and was grieved to think what an uncertain lot was before the merry little being, but her presence had made Rusha and Ben more troublesome than they had ever been in their lives before, and there was also the anxiety lest her unguarded tongue should offend Jeph and his friends. Emlyn skipped along by Steadfast's side, making him magnificent promises. They paused by the ruins of the farm where Stead still kept up as much of the orchard and garden as he could with so little time and so far from home, and Emlyn filled her skirt with rosy-cheeked apples, saying in a pretty gentle manner, "they were such a treat to our poor rogues on a dusty march," and Stead aided her by carrying as many as he could. However, an occasional bugle note, clouds of dust on the road far below in the valley, and a low, dull tramp warned them to come forward, and station themselves in the hedge above the deep lane where Steadfast had once watched for his brother. Only a few of the more adventurous village lads were before them now, and when Stead explained that the little wench wanted to watch for her father, they were kind in helping him to perch her in the hollow of a broken old pollard, where she could see, and not be seen. For the poor camp maiden knew the need of caution. She drew Steadfast close to her, and bade him not show himself till she told him, for some of the wilder sort would blaze away their pistols at anything, especially when they had had any good ale, or were out of sorts. Poor fellows, there was no doubt of their being out of sorts, as they tramped along, half hidden in dust, even the officers, who rode before them, with ragged plumes and slouched hats. The silken banners, which they had been allowed to carry out, because of their prompt surrender, hung limp and soiled, almost like tokens of a defeat, and if any one of those spectators behind the hawthorns had been conversant with Roman history, it would have seemed to them like the passing under the yoke, so dejected, nay, ashamed was the demeanour of the gentlemen. Emlyn whispered name after name as they went by, but even she was hushed and overawed by the spectacle, as four abreast these sad remnants of the royal army marched along the lane, one or two trying to whistle, a few more talking in under tones, but all soon dying away, as if they were too much out of heart to keep anything up. She scarcely stirred while the infantry, who were by far the most numerous, were going by, only naming corps or officer to Stead, then there came an interval, and the tread of horses and clank of their trappings could be heard. Then she almost forgot her precautions in her eagerness to crane forward. "They are coming!" she said. "All there are of them will be a guard for the Prince."