"Where is he
hit?"
"He has it in the body and he suffers."
The Pretender muttered something. "I bring ill-luck to my friends, you
see. Best ride off, Mr. Boyce."
"You can do me no harm, sir. God knows if I can do you any good."
The Pretender looked at him curiously. "I think you are something of my
own temper. In effect, there is little to hope with me."
"Who knows?" Harry shrugged. "_Par exemple,_ sir, do you know where we
are going now?"
"This is a parable, _mordieu_! I leave my friends to be shot for me and
die, perhaps, while I ride off and know not the least of my way."
"Egad, sir, you were in enough of a hurry to go somewhere." Harry reined
up. "Am I to be trusted in the affair?"
The Pretender amazed Harry by laughing--a laugh so hearty and boyish that
he seemed another man from the creature of stiff, pedantic melancholy.
"Oh Lud, Mr. Boyce, don't scold. You might be a politician. Tell me,
where is this damned palace?"
"Kensington, sir? Bear to the left, if you please."
So they swung round, and soon hitting upon a lane saw the village and the
trees about the palace. In a little while, "Mr. Boyce: how much do you
know?" the Pretender said; and still he was more the boy than the
disinherited king.
"Egad, sir, no more than I told you: that my father had bullies
watching for you.
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