The storm lulled,
for it had blown itself out. Everything sayable had been said times out of
number.
"I am for marching back at once," he declared in a loud voice.
I was heartily sorry for the Prince. In his mind's eye he had seen
himself in the palace of his fathers with a nation repentant at his feet.
He did not know England,--no Stuart ever did,--or he would have known that
the wave of chivalry that had carried him so far was bound to spend itself
on the indifferent English as a wave spends itself on the indifferent
sands. Yet it was hard to go back, hard to know that he had done so much
more than his grandfather in '89 or his father in '15, and done it in
vain. His standard was proudly flaunting in the heart of England over the
grave of his cause.
But he died well. "Rather than go back," he cried, "I would wish to be
twenty feet under ground!"
With a wave of his hand he dismissed the Council.
"Slip out and look after Sultan," whispered the Colonel. "I am
aide-de-camp to the Prince and cannot come. Take him to the 'Bald-Faced
Stag' in the Irongate, to your right across the Square.
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