Then would be his turn.

He would fight till all was blue, and then if the outsiders won, turn round and fight for them as hardily, since all he required was plenty of fighting and plenty of food and wine.
He was right in one thing.

The very next day about noon, a sudden _pouf_--_bing-bing_--_thud_, told that the first shot had been fired.
And after that there was no peace and little safety.

Only Foster-father in his dungeon was free even from anxiety; for fever had seized on him and he lay unconscious.

And in his close prison room, where there was little air and less light, and where Roy racked his brain for stories wherewith to while away the leaden-footed hours, the little Heir-to-Empire lay listless also, yet not ill.