o your king."

"Nay, but, mamma," he said, calling her by the sweet name of his boyhood,
taking her hand and looking down at her tenderly with tear-dimmed eyes
full of affection, "one must be true to his idea of right and duty first
of all, even at the price of his allegiance to a king; and, after all,
what is any king beside you in my heart? But I feel in honor bound to go
with my people."

The irresolution was gone from his expression now, and the two determined
faces--one full of pity, the other of apprehension--confronted each other.

CHAPTER VII

_The Loyal Talbots_

"Your people, son?" she said after a long pause. "Come with me a
moment." She drew him into the brilliantly lighted hall. As they
entered, he said to the servant in waiting,--

"See that my bay horse is saddled and brought around at once, and do
you tell Dick to get another horse ready and accompany me; he would
better take the black pony."

"Are you going out, Hilary?"

"Yes, mother, when our conversation is over, if there is time. I
thought to ride over to Colonel Wilton's. The night is pleasant, and
the moon will rise shortly. What were you about to say to me?"

She led him up to the great open fireplace, on the andirons of which a
huge log was blazing and crackling cheerfully. Over the mantel was the
picture of a handsome man in the uniform of a soldier of some twenty
years back.

"Whose face is pictured there, Hilary?"

"My honored father," he answered reverently, but in some surprise.

"And how died he?"

"On the Plains of Abraham, mother, as you well know."

"Fighting for his king?"

"Yes, mother."

"And who is this one?" she said, passing to another picture.

"Sir James Talbot; he struck for his king at Worcester," he volunteered.

"Yes, Hilary; and here is his wife, Lady Caroline Talbot, my
grandmother. She kept the door against the Roundheads while the prince
escaped from her castle, to which he had fled after the battle. And
over there is Lord Cecil Talbot, her father; he fell at Naseby. There
in that corner is another James, his brother, one of Prince Rupert's
men, wounded at Marston Moor. Here is Sir Hilary, slain at the Boyne;
and this old man is Lord Philip, your great-uncle. He was out in the
'45, and was beheaded. These are your people, Hilary," she said,
standing very straight, her head thrown back, her eyes aflame with
pride and determination, "and these struck, fought, lived, and died for