"There's no getting away from it, Sir Ralph," squeaked Master Dobson,
summing up for the doubtful townsmen; "between the rebels and us this
night there's not thirty miles nor three hundred men, and you've so far
only got about two thousand men in Stafford. I'm as loyal a man as any in
England, but there's no getting away from that."
"Nobody wants to get away from it, Master Dobson," replied Sir Ralph.
"Any body of men with arms in their hands and the knack of using them, can
march much farther than the Highlanders have come, if no other body of
armed men stands in their way. The Stuart Prince's march will come to an
end just as soon as he is opposed, and we're here to oppose him."
Master Dobson was still gloomy. "What sort of men have you got? Raw
militia lads, young recruits, and newly raised dragoons form at least half
of your force in Stafford."
"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.
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