"You do not understand?" he said.
"No," said Margaret and I together.
The Colonel took no notice. He was puffing away at his pipe,
long-drawn-out, solemn puffs, and gazing at the fire in a brown study.
"Well, Margaret and Oliver," said Master Freake, "this is no time to be
giving you lessons in the way the great world wags that neither knows nor
cares of outs and ins and party shufflings, but is busy with rents and
crops, and incomings and outgoings, and debts and credits, and wivings and
thrivings. But, believe me, in being anxious to know who is going to win,
I am as plainly and simply doing my duty as is the Colonel who is going to
do his best to help his Prince to win. I am one, and, I thank God, not the
least, of that great race of men who are destined to mould a mightier
England than the sword could ever carve--the merchant of London whose nod
is his bond."
He spoke with simple dignity and his word was established. I had trusted
him on sight. "His nod was his bond." You saw it in the man's clear,
steady eyes and knew it by the set of his firm, square chin. After a
warning glance at the silent Colonel, he leaned forward, and Margaret bent
to meet him.
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