Wilton hesitated.  He believed he had done right in every respect; that he had done what he was bound to do in honour; that he had done what was in reality the best for the King’s own service; but yet he knew not by any means how this act might be looked upon.  The minds of all men were excited, at that moment, to a pitch of indignation against the whole Jacobite faction, which made the slightest connivance with any of their practices, the slightest favour shown to any of their number, a high crime in the eyes of every one.  But Wilton knew that he was, moreover, actually and absolutely punishable by law as a traitor for what he had done:  what he was called upon to confess was, in the strict letter of the law, quite sufficient to send him to the Tower, and to bring his neck under the axe; for in treason all are principals, and he had aided and abetted one marked as a traitor.  But, nevertheless, though he hesitated for a moment whether he should speak at all, yet he had resolved to do so, and of course to do so truly, when the King, seeing him pause, and mistaking the motives, added,—­

“You had better tell the truth, sir.  Captain Churchill has confessed, that though out of consideration for you he had admitted that he was present on this occasion, yet that in reality he had never quitted his house during the whole of the day in question.”

“Sire,” replied Wilton, looking him full in the face, with a calm, but not disrespectful air, “your majesty may have seen by my answers hitherto that whatever I do say will be the truth, plain and undisguised.  I only hesitated whether I should not beg your majesty to excuse my answering at all, as you know by the laws of England no man can be forced to criminate himself; but as I acted in a manner that became a man of honour, and also in a manner which I believed at the time to be fitted to promote your majesty’s interests, and to be in every respect such as you yourself could wish, I will answer the question, though, perhaps, my answer might in some circumstances be used against myself.”

The slightest possible shade of displeasure had come over the King’s countenance, when Wilton expressed a doubt as to answering the question at all; but whether it was from his natural command over his features, the coldness of a phlegmatic constitution, or that he really was not seriously angry, the cloud upon his brow was certainly not a hundredth part so heavy as it would probably have been with any other sovereign in Europe.  He contented himself, then, when Wilton had come to the end of the sentence, by merely saying, with evident marks of impatience and curiosity, “Go on.  What was his real name?”

“The name, sire, by which he is generally known,” replied Wilton, “is the Duke of Berwick.”

For once the King was moved.  He started in his chair, and turning round, looked at the gentleman by his side, exclaiming, “It was not Drummond, then!”