"We can't find him."
"Ah! 'Twas you gave the alarm. Good boy; zeal, excellent; but a little
mistake; yes, Grinsell explained; a mistake, Desmond."
The squire spoke hurriedly, disconnectedly, with an embarrassment even
greater than Desmond's.
"But, sir," the boy began, "I saw--"
"Yes, yes," interrupted the old man. "I know all about it. But Grinsell's
explanation--yes, I know all about it. I am obliged to you, Desmond; but
I am satisfied with Grinsell's explanation; I shall go no further in the
matter."
He groaned and put his hand to his head.
"Are you ill, Sir Willoughby?" asked Desmond anxiously.
The squire looked up; his face was an image of distress. He was silent
for a moment; then said slowly:
"Sick at heart, Desmond, sick at heart. I am an old man--an old man."
Desmond was uncomfortable. He had never seen the squire in such a mood,
and had a healthy boy's natural uneasiness at any display of feeling.
"You see that portrait?" the squire went on, pointing wearily with his
stick at the head of a young man done in oils. "The son of my oldest
friend--my dear old friend Merriman. I never told you of him. Nine years
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.
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