You may fancy what a blow this was to Dan’l; for though fine and vexed with Hughie’s evil courses, he’d never guessed the worst, nor anything like it.  Not a doubt had he, nor could have, that Hughie was guilty; but he went straight from the court to his young woman and said, “I’ve saved money for us to be married on.  There’s little chance that I can win Hughie a reprieve; and, whether or no, it will eat up all, or nearly all, my savings.  Only he’s my one brother.  Shall I go?” And she said, “Go, my dear, if I wait ten years for you.”  So he borrowed a horse for a stage or two, and then hired, and so got to London, on a fool’s chase, as it seemed.

The fellow’s purpose, of course, was to see King George.  But King George, as it happened, was daft just then; and George his son reigned in his stead, being called the Prince Regent.  Weary days did Dan’l air his heels with one Minister of the Crown after another before he could get to see this same Regent, and ’tis to be supposed that the great city, being new to him, weighed heavy on his spirits.  And all the time he had but one plea, that his brother was no more than a boy and hadn’t an ounce of vice in his nature—­which was well enough beknown to all in Tregarrick, but didn’t go down with His Majesty’s advisers:  while as for the Prince Regent, Dan’l couldn’t get to see him till the Wednesday evening that Hughie was to be hanged on the Friday, and then his Royal Highness spoke him neither soft nor hopeful.

“The case was clear as God’s daylight,” said he:  “the Lord Chief Justice tells me that the jury didn’t even quit the box.”

“Your Royal Highness must excuse me,” said Dan’l, “but I never shall be able to respect that judge.  My opinion of a judge is, he should be like a stickler and see fair play; but this here chap took sides against Hughie from the first.  If I was you,” he said, “I wouldn’t trust him with a Petty Sessions.”

“Well, you may think how likely this kind of speech was to please the Prince Regent.  And I’ve heard that Dan’l; was in the very article of being pitched out, neck and crop, when he heard a regular caprouse start up in the antechamber behind him, and a lord-in-waiting, or whatever he’s called, comes in and speaks a word very low to the Prince.

“Show him in at once,” says he, dropping poor Dan’l’s petition upon the table beside him; and in there walks a young officer with his boots soiled with riding and the sea-salt in his hair, like as if he’d just come off a ship; and hands the Prince a big letter.  The Prince hardly cast his eye over what was written before he outs with a lusty hurrah, as well he might, for this was the first news of the taking of St. Sebastian.

“Here’s news,” said he, “to fill the country with bonfires this night.”

“Begging your Royal Highness’s pardon,” answers the officer, pulling out his watch; “but the mail coaches have left St. Martin’s Lane”—­that’s where they started from, as I’ve heard tell—­“these twenty minutes.”