"What, they mean to hang him?" says I, in horror.
"Yes, to hang him," says the Captain.
"But he's so young," I said, "and he looks so harmless and so innocent. They will never hang him, Captain, surely."
"I think they will," the Captain said; "and wherefore should they not? He is a very arrant rebel; he has conducted the business of the Prince in a most intrepid manner, and he further holds a deal of knowledge that the Government have determined to wring from him if they can."
"Ah me!" I sighed, "it is a very cruel thing."
For here his lovely glance returned upon me, and it made me sad to think of it and his bitter doom. And, at least, this lad, even in ignominious tatters and captivity, contrived to appear both handsome and impressive, which is a point beyond all the fops of London, despite their silks and laces and their eternal artifice.
"Anyway," I said, "this rebel interests me, Captain. Come, tell me all about him now. Has he a birth, sir?"
"Not he," the Captain said; "merely the son of a Glasgow baker, or some person of that character."
The Captain, who had, of course, been born, said this with a half triumphant air, as though this was a coup-de-grâce, and had, therefore, killed the matter. And I will confess that here was a shock to the web of romance I was weaving about this
