Son of Fury Page #2

We'll sleep

on the road tonight.

And tomorrow it'll be new names,

a new life.

And the money I saved

will be good for a start.

Get some bread and cheese

from the kitchen.

How will we live

when our money's gone?

I'll find work.

There'll be other gunsmiths.

Work for a wage

in another man's shop?

I've done it before.

I can do it again.

- What could he do if he caught us?

- You'd go back to Breetholm.

And you, Grandfather?

Men have been

branded and jailed for less.

You'd risk that for me?

You're the beat

of my heart, Ben.

Come. It's late, and we have

a long road ahead of us.

No. We're not leaving.

- I'm going back to Breetholm.

- Ben, what are you sayin'?

He said I was a Blake

in all but name.

I'll show him.

I'll take whatever he has to give me,

and I'll mark it down.

And someday when I am master

of Breetholm, I'll give it back.

He can do with me

as he pleases...

but I'll never submit.

Say good-bye to me, Ben.

My tongue's stuck.

Well, we're almost ready,

milord.

- The vixens have whelped

a splendid lot of cubs this year.

- Indeed?

'Pon my soul, I don't believe

I've yet presented my daughter. Here she is.

Or shouldn't we be interrupting?

This is my daughter, Isabel.

Lord Tarrant. Lord Tarrant

rides with us today.

- Your servant, Mistress Isabel.

- Your servant, milord.

- Mr. Hobart of Foxcroft Hall.

- How do you do, milord?

- How do you do?

- I'll give you my black mare.

She's light, but well up

to your weight.

Where's that rascal Ben?

The mare should be here by now.

I'll go, Father.

Excuse me, gentlemen.

Why isn't the mare

at the house?

She's an arbitrary female.

She lost a shoe and kept it a secret.

You'll never learn,

will you, Ben?

- What?

- How to be civil to your superiors.

I'm always civil...

to my superiors.

Now you grow rude

and impertinent.

You women are all alike

accusing someone else of your own failings.

Mistress Isabel, your father

is waiting for the mare.

She's ready.

I'll bring her out.

Master Hobart, tell my father

I'm not well enough to ride today.

- Oh, I say. I mean, what

- Just say it's a headache.

I shall be quite

recovered at tea.

Huh. Well, it's good to know when

you're going to get over them, isn't it?

You didn't say

you were sorry I was ill.

If you are, then I am.

You presume to think I feigned a headache

to stay here and talk to you?

I didn't say that either.

What think you

of Master Hobart?

I like his clothes.

Would you like

to know a secret?

He's asked for my hand.

Well, it's only

to be expected.

I've noticed him handling it

at every opportunity.

It should make your father

very pleased.

Whatever put that

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