ago, Desmond--nine years ago, my old friend was as hale and hearty a man
as myself, and George was the apple of his eye. They were for the
king--God save him!-and when word came that Prince Charles was marching
south from Scotland, they arranged secretly with a party of loyal
gentlemen to join him. But I hung back; I had not their courage; I am
alive, and I lost my friend."

His voice sank, and, leaning heavily upon his stick, he gazed vacantly
into space. Desmond was perplexed and still more ill at ease. What had
this to do with the incidents of the night? He shrank from asking the
question.

"Yes, I lost my friend," the squire continued. "We had news of the
prince; he had left Carlisle; he was moving southwards, about to strike a
blow for his father's throne. He was approaching Derby. George Merriman
sent a message to his friends, appointing a rendezvous: gallant
gentlemen, they would join the Stuart flag! The day came, they met, and
the minions of the Hanoverian surrounded them. Betrayed!--poor, loyal
gentlemen, betrayed by one who had their confidence and abused it--one of
my own blood, Desmond--the shame of it! They were tried, hanged--hanged!
It broke my old friend's heart; he died; 'twas one of my blood that
killed him."

Again speech failed him. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he said:

"But 'tis late, boy; your brother keeps early hours. I am not myself
tonight; the memory of the past unnerves me. Bid me good night, boy."

Desmond hesitated, biting his lips. What of the motive of his visit? He
had come to ask advice; could he go without having mentioned the subject