"No," said Roy, merrily. "I want you to select a helmet, breastplate, and back-piece to fit you, and a good sword."

"Oh, no, no!" said the secretary, quickly. "I am not a man of war."

"But you'll have to be, while you are on guard."

"Not like that. I might wear a good sharp sword; in fact, I did pick out one, and I have it in my room."

"Well done!" cried Roy, clapping his hands. "There, mother, who's ever going to think of surrendering when Master Pawson makes preparations like that.--I say, don't be too hard on the enemy, sir. Try and wound; don't cut off heads."

"Ah, you are making fun of me, Roy! But never mind. Don't you forget that by-and-by, when the fighting's over, I shall take my revenge."

"What--over lessons? Very well. I'm having a capital holiday from the old Latin."

The bent of the conversation turned, and the dinner ended in a very cheerful manner, for as time went on, Lady Royland could not help feeling hopeful. For want of the necessary war-material, the enemy seemed to be able to do no more in the way of a regular siege, and their efforts with the battery were becoming somewhat relaxed. No more men had been injured, and the sufferers in hospital were doing well. In fact, the general opinion in the castle was that before very long the enemy would, if they found they could not starve the defenders out, give up the attack, the castle being too hard a nut to crack.

That evening, while the firing was going on in a desultory way, Roy visited the hospital, meeting the secretary on the way.

"You've been to see the poor fellows?" said Roy, smiling.

"Yes--yes--they look white and ill. It is very sad, Roy. Such fine strong men, too. But what do you think of my going to read to them for an hour or two every day?"

"Not Latin?" said Roy, laughing.

"No, no, of course not. Something about the old wars."

"Capital!" cried Roy. "Do!"

"And I might take my viol over, and play to them a little."

"No, no; I say, don't do that," cried Roy.

"Eh? Why not? It would be so soothing."

"No; it wouldn't. Only make them miserable. They don't understand sarabands and corantos; and you can't play jigs."

"No," said the secretary, grandly, but with a peculiar look. "Perhaps they would not appreciate good music. And you are right; I do not understand jigs."

He nodded and crossed to the door-way leading up to his room, and Roy directly after encountered old Jenk.

"Hallo! where are you going?"

"Eh, eh? Master Roy? Oh, only up on to the platform to see the firing for a bit!"

"I say, don't you get shot."

"Me? Me? No, sir; they won't hit me. Look--look!" he cried, pointing upward. "Flag--ladyship's flag! Blows out bravely. See--we'll never surrender."

"Yes. Never surrender, Jenk. Too good soldiers for that."

"Ay, ay, ay!" cried the old man. "Too good soldiers for that. Brave boy! Your father's son. But you'll have my little gate-house built up again, Master Roy, when they've gone, eh? They've knocked it about a deal. But old soldiers don't mind scars."

"Oh, yes; we'll have it put right when we've made the enemy run."

"Yes, yes, make 'em run, Master Roy; and I'll tell your father what a brave soldier Ben Martlet and I have made you."

The old man chuckled and went in at the door-way to mount the spiral stairs, while Roy turned and looked up at the flag, well blown out by the evening breeze.

"Poor old fellow! Helped to make me a soldier, has he? Well, it pleases him to think so."

The lad ran his eye along the side of the court-yard, sadly trampled now, and fancied he saw a head quickly withdrawn at one of the narrow windows of the north-west tower; but he was not sure, and it did not impress him then as he went on to the hospital-room, where the wounded men received him eagerly, Sam Donny being the most demonstrative, and ending by begging that he might be ordered on duty again.

"Another week at least, first," said Roy. "Only too glad to have you all back."

Roy stayed till it was dark, and he was descending to the court-yard when a loud shouting below took his attention, and upon running out he found a knot of men eagerly talking and looking up at the gate tower.

"What is it? What's wrong?" said the boy, excitedly.

"The flag, sir," cried Farmer Raynes. "Did you order it to be pulled down?"

"I? No!" cried Roy, excitedly. "I said it was to be kept up night and day. Who has dared to do this?"

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

BY A TRAITOR'S HAND.

The last words were spoken as he hurried across to the door-way in the gate tower; and before he reached the platform at the top, he could hear Ben Martlet storming and shouting at the men, who were very silent; but from the noise of footsteps it was evident that they were running to and fro.

As Roy reached the top of the stairs, it was to find his exit on to the platform blocked by Ben and the corporal, the former being decked with the flag hanging over his shoulder like a mantle. They were evidently busy with the halyards at the little opening, down beside which the flag-pole b.u.t.t was fixed in iron loops, and through which window the flag was hoisted and the halyards secured.

"What's the meaning of this?" cried Roy, breathlessly. "The enemy will think we have surrendered."

"Let 'em come, then, sir, and we'll show 'em we haven't," roared Ben, fiercely.

"But why was the flag hauled down?"

"Wasn't hauled down, sir. Come down with a run right on to the leads."

"What! Did the line break?"

"I wish it had broke, sir. You just look at that!" And he held out an end of the thin, strong hempen cord which ran through a pulley at the top of the pole, and to which the flag was always attached.

"Cut?" cried Roy.

"Yes, sir; cut. Some one has sawed through it with a sharp knife; and I want to know who it was."

"Some one up here on the platform?"