“Say you want me for an example.”
“That is the truth, my lord.”
“And, you would add, for statecraft. Then let us look at the matter with a statesman’s eye. You say truly that England does not love her Government. She is weary of foreign wars, and an alien Royal house, and gross taxes, and corruption in high places. She is weary, I say, but she will not stir to shift the burden. You are right; she is for the first comer. You bring a foreign army and it will fight what in the main is a foreign army, so patriotic feeling is engaged on neither side. If you win, the malcontents, who are the great majority, will join you, and His Royal Highness will sit on the throne of his fathers. If you fail, there is no loss except to yourselves, for the others are not pledged. Statesmanship, sir, is an inglorious thing, for it must consider first the fortunes of the common people. No statesman has a right to risk these fortunes unless he be reasonably assured of success. Therefore I say to you that England must wait, and statesmen must wait with England, till the issue is decided. That issue still lies with the soldiers. I cannot join His Royal Highness at this juncture, for I could bring no aid to his cause and I might bring needless ruin to those who depend on me. My answer might have been otherwise had I been a soldier.”
A certain quiet obstinacy had entered the face which was revealed in profile by the lamp on the bureau. The voice had lost its gentle indeterminateness and rang crisp and clear. Alastair had knowledge enough of men to recognise finality. He made his last effort.
“Are considerations of policy the only ones? You and I share the same creeds, my lord. Our loyalty is owed to the House which has the rightful succession, and we cannot in our obedience to God serve what He has not ordained. Is it not your duty to fling prudence to the winds and make your election before the world, for right is right whether we win or lose.”
“For some men maybe,” said the other sadly, “but not for me. I am in that position that many eyes are turned on me and in my decision I must consider them. If your venture fails, I desire that as few Englishmen as possible suffer for it, it being premised that for the moment only armed men can help it to success. Therefore I wait, and will counsel waiting to all in like position. Beaufort can bring troops, and in God’s name I would urge him on, and from the bottom of my heart I pray for the Prince’s welfare.”
“What will decide you, then?”
“A victory on English soil. Nay, I will go farther. So soon as His Royal Highness is in the way of that victory, I will fly to his side.”
“What proof will you require?”
“Ten thousand men south of Derby on the road to London, and the first French contingent landed.”
“That is your answer, my lord?”
“That is the answer which I would have you convey with my most humble and affectionate duty to His Royal Highness. … And now, sir, will you join me in a turn on the terrace, as the night is fine. It is my habit before retiring.”
The night was mild and very dark, and from the lake rose the honk of wild fowl and from the woods the fitful hooting of owls. To Alastair his failure was scarcely a disappointment, for he realised that all day he had lived in expectation of it. Nay, inasmuch as it placed so solemn a duty upon the soldiers of the Cause, it strung his nerves like a challenge. Lord Cornbury put an arm in his, and the sign of friendship moved the young man’s affection. It was for youth and ardour such as his to make clear the path for gentler souls.
They left the stones of the terrace and passed the lit window of the dining-room, where it appeared that merriment had advanced, for Sir Christopher Lacy was attempting a hunting-song.
“Such are the squires of England,” whispered Cornbury. “They will drink and dice and wench for the Prince, but not fight for him.”
“Not yet,” Alastair corrected. “But when your lordship joins us he will not be unattended.”
They reached the corner of the house from which in daylight the great avenue could be seen, the spot where that morning Alastair had delivered his credentials.
“I hear hooves,” said Cornbury, with a hand to his ear. “Nay, it is only the night wind.”
“It is a horse,” said the other. “I have heard it for the last minute. Now it is entering the courtyard. See, there is a stable lantern.”
A light swayed, and there was the sound of human speech.
“That is Kyd’s Scotch servant,” Cornbury said. “Let us inquire into the errand of this nightrider.”
As they moved towards the lantern a commotion began, and the light wavered like a ship’s lamp in a heavy sea.
“Haud up, sir,” cried a voice. “Losh, the beast’s foundered, and the man’s in a dwam.”
III
In Which Private Matters Cut Across Affairs of State
In the circle of the lantern’s light the horseman, a big shambling fellow, stood swaying as if in extreme fatigue, now steadying himself by a hand on the animal’s neck, now using the support of the groom’s shoulder. His weak eyes peered and blinked, and at the sight of the gentlemen he made an attempt at a bow.
“My lord!” he gasped with a dry mouth. “Do I address my lord Cornbury?”
He did not wait for an answer. “I am from Chastlecote, my lord. I beg—I supplicate—a word with your lordship.”
“Now?”
“Now, if it please you. My business is most urgent. It is life or death, my lord, the happiness or despair of an immortal soul.”
“You are the tutor from Chastlecote, I think. You
