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But Racey was in no mood to speculate on the idiosyncrasies of woman. Even the woman. So he topped his mount and rejoined Tom Loudon and Mr. Saltoun. They regarded him silently. "I guess," said Racey, whirling an empty tobacco-bag by it's draw-string, "I'll borrow some of yore smokin', Tom. I'm plumb afoot for tobacco at the present writing." Tom Loudon handed over his pouch without a word.
The marquis of Athol offered an act for the security of the kingdom, in case of her majesty's decease; but before it was read, the duke of Argyle presented his draft of a bill for ratifying the revolution, and all the acts following thereupon, An act for limiting the succession after the death of her majesty, and the heirs of her body, was produced by Mr. Fletcher of Saltoun.
A detachment of his troops was preparing to march to Bridport when a disastrous event threw the whole camp into confusion. Fletcher of Saltoun had been appointed to command the cavalry under Grey. Fletcher was ill mounted; and indeed there were few chargers in the camp which had not been taken from the plough.
"Looks like they got back mighty soon from chasing the stranger," said Racey, when they came in sight of the place, eying the number of horses tied to the hitching-rail. "Maybe they got him quick," Mr. Saltoun offered, sardonically. They rode on and added their horses to the tail-switching string in front of the saloon.
The cutting was yellow with age, and ran in this way: "On Tuesday an interesting ceremony was performed at the barracks of the Third Regiment of Guards, when, in the presence of the Prince Regent, Lord Hill, Lord Saltoun, and an assemblage which comprised beauty as well as valour, a special medal was presented to Corporal Gregory Brewster, of Captain Haldane's flank company, in recognition of his gallantry in the recent great battle in the Lowlands.
But it was certainly the accident of his presence at a family dinner of the Fishers, and the unexpected opinion he expressed, which turned what might have been a dinner-table joke into a sort of small sensational novel. Save for Lord Saltoun, it was a family party of Fishers, for the only other distinguished stranger had just departed after dinner, leaving the rest to their coffee and cigars.
While these matters were transacting in Scotland, Monmouth, conformably to his promise to Argyle, set sail from Holland, and landed at Lyme in Dorsetshire, on the 11th of June. He was attended by Lord Grey of Wark, Fletcher of Saltoun, Colonel Matthews, Ferguson, and a few other gentlemen.
Such a man was Sir Patrick Hume. He had returned from exile, as litigious, as impracticable; as morbidly jealous of all superior authority, and as fond of haranguing, as he had been four years before, and was as much bent on making a merely nominal sovereign of William as he had formerly been bent on making a merely nominal general of Argyle, A man far superior morally and intellectually to Hume, Fletcher of Saltoun, belonged to the same party.
His friends would have said that he was all the more ripe in his maturity for having been young in his youth. His enemies would have said that he was still light minded, but no longer light hearted. But in any case, the whole of the story Horne Fisher had to tell arose out of the accident which had made young Harry Fisher private secretary to Lord Saltoun.
Saltoun shivered inwardly. He was a man of courage, but not of foolhardy courage, the species of courage that dares death unnecessarily. He was getting on in years, and hoped, when it came his time to die, to pass out peacefully in his nightshirt. And here was that fool of a Racey practically telling Harpe and the other rascals that he was on to their game. No wonder Mr. Saltoun shivered.
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