In his condition the boy apparently had been as safe as in the lock-up. Rank ingratitude, I call it. Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. I’ve never had these crying fits before. ’ ‘You say—what?’ gasped Melusine. Anna went out. He’s waiting.
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