“Then it was like the soul of the licentiate Pedro Garcias, which lay among the ducats in his leathern purse. That man has been robbed, and he has lodged an information against you, as connected with the violence done to him.”

“You jest, Miss Vernon!”

“I do not, I assure you—the thing is an absolute fact.”

“And do you,” said I, with strong indignation, which I did not attempt to suppress, “do you suppose me capable of meriting such a charge?”

“You would call me out for it, I suppose, had I the advantage of being a man—You may do so as it is, if you like it—I can shoot flying, as well as leap a five-barred gate.”

“And are colonel of a regiment of horse besides,” replied I, reflecting how idle it was to be angry with her—“But do explain the present jest to me!”

“There’s no jest whatever,” said Diana; “you are accused of robbing this man, and my uncle believes it as well as I did.”

“Upon my honour, I am greatly obliged to my friends for their good opinion!”

“Now do not, if you can help it, snort, and stare, and snuff the wind, and look so exceedingly like a startled horse—There’s no such offence as you suppose—you are not charged with any petty larceny, or vulgar felony—by no means. This fellow was carrying money from government, both specie and bills, to pay the troops in the north; and it is said he has been also robbed of some despatches of great consequence.”

“And so it is high treason, then, and not simple robbery, of which I am accused?”

“Certainly; which, you know, has been in all ages accounted the crime of a gentleman. You will find plenty in this country, and one not far from your elbow, who think it a merit to distress the Hanoverian government by every means possible.”

“Neither my politics nor my morals, Miss Vernon, are of a description so accommodating.”

“I really begin to believe that you are a Presbyterian and Hanoverian in good earnest. But what do you propose to do?”

“Instantly to refute this atrocious calumny.—Before whom,” I asked, “was this extraordinary accusation laid?”

“Before old Squire Inglewood, who had sufficient unwillingness to receive it. He sent tidings to my uncle, I suppose, that he might smuggle you away into Scotland, out of reach of the warrant. But my uncle is sensible that his religion and old predilections render him obnoxious to government, and that, were he caught playing booty, he would be disarmed, and probably dismounted (which would be the worse evil of the two), as a Jacobite, Papist, and suspected person.”¹

“I can conceive that, sooner than lose his hunters, he would give up his nephew.”

“His nephew, nieces, sons—daughters, if he had them, and whole generation,” said Diana; “therefore trust not to him, even for a single moment, but make the best of your way before they can serve the warrant.”

“That I shall certainly do; but it shall be to the house of this Squire Inglewood—Which way does it lie?”