"Agreed," said Sir Ralph, "but we're rapidly licking 'em into shape, and
the Duke will be after us to-morrow with the regulars."

"My good Sir Ralph," put in the mercer, "fifty thousand savage
Highlanders will cut through Stafford as easily as if it were a Cheshire
cheese. I fear the worst."

"My worthy sir," said his lordship, and in his dulcet tones I heard the
tinkle of the mercer's guineas, "you need fear nothing. Neither stick nor
stone in Stafford will be disturbed. We are at least strong enough to make
good terms."

"And Mistress Allwood," said the rector with a leer, "will be spared the
wastage of her charms on a ragged Highlander."

The mercer's wife had all the charms of a withered apple, but here was
opening for discord, and our twittering host staved it off by appealing to
the stranger: "What do you think, Master Freake, of the way things are
going?"

"I have not formed an opinion as to what is likely to happen here, good
Master Dobson," he replied, "but, speaking generally, I should feel much
easier in mind if the Duke's horses were not so utterly worn out."

There was a distinct note of patronage in the tone in which this shrewd
and sensible remark was uttered, nor was this affected, I thought, but
rather the natural manner of a strong man speaking to a weak one.

"Egad, you're right there, sir," cried Jack. "Nineteen out of twenty of
them couldn't be flayed into doing another five miles. I was over an hour