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In the distance, a bugle sounded, followed by a long ruffle of drums, and Colonel Broadcastle stepped quickly to the window of the balcony. "There's the Governor," he said. "Will you come in? I'll send my orderly to show you to your seats." At the same moment, the door from the corridor opened, and the orderly entered, his hand at his shako. "Sir, the Governor has arrived."
Broadcastle and the Lieutenant-Governor were deep in conversation inside, having seized the delay in the arrival of Governor Abbott as an opportunity for a few words in private. "How funny they are, scuttling along, all of them!" said Dorothy. "And how immensely pleased the favored ones are, who have a soldier to show them the way.
It isn't only that ruin's staring me in the face, though there's that possibility in the situation, too, but that privation, bitter misery, and despair are lying in wait for them. God! what an iniquity! "But I can't give in, Broadcastle I can't give in, John Barclay! It means the sacrifice of a principle I've held out for, and that I know is right.
What's more, it isn't as if I were yielding one point. It would only be the beginning. If I give in now, I might as well turn over the mills to McGrath at once, and let him run them according to his own blackguardly will. You know how such things go. Give them an inch" "And they raise a hell!" put in Colonel Broadcastle. "Exactly! It's commercial suicide.
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