CHAPTER XI. — I RIDE DOWN INTO TEMPLE: AND AM WELL TREATED THERE.
And now I did indeed abandon myself to despair. Few would have given a groat for my life, with that crew at my heels; and I least of all, now that my dear comrade was lost. The wound in my shoulder was bleeding sore—I could feel the warm stream welling—yet not so sore as my heart. And I pressed my knees into the saddle flap, and wondered what the end would be.
The sorrel mare was galloping, free and strong, her delicate ears laid back, and the network of veins under her soft skin working with the heave and fall of her withers: yet—by the mud and sweat about her—I knew she must have travelled far before I mounted. I heard a shot or two fired, far up the road: tho’ their bullets must have fallen short: at least, I heard none whiz past. But the rebels’ shouting was clear enough, and the thud of their gallop behind.
I think that, for a mile or two, I must have ridden in a sort of swoon. ’Tis certain, not an inch of the road comes back to me: nor did I once turn my head to look back, but sat with my eyes fastened stupidly on the mare’s neck. And by-and-bye, as we galloped, the smart of my wound, the heartache, hurry, pounding of hoofs—all dropp’d to an enchanting lull. I rode, and that was all.
For, swoon or no, I was lifted off earth, as it seemed, and on easy wings to an incredible height, where were no longer hedges, nor road, nor country round; but a great stillness, and only the mare and I running languidly through it.
“Ride!”
Now, at first, I thought ’twas someone speaking this in my ear, and turn’d my head. But ’twas really the last word I had heard from Delia, now after half an hour repeated in my brain. And as I grew aware of this, the dullness fell off me, and all became very distinct. And the muscles about my wound had stiffen’d—which was vilely painful: and the country, I saw, was a brown, barren moor, dotted with peat-ricks: and I cursed it.
This did me good: for it woke the fighting-man in me, and I set my teeth. Now for the first time looking back, I saw, with a great gulp of joy, I had gained on the troopers. A long dip of the road lay between me and the foremost, now topping the crest. The sun had broke through at last, and sparkled on his cap and gorget. I whistled to Molly (I could not pat her), and spoke to her softly: the sweet thing prick’d up her ears, laid them back again, and mended her pace. Her stride was beautiful to feel.
I had yet no clear idea how to escape. In front the moors rose gradually, swelling to the horizon line, and there broken into steep, jagged heights. The road under me was sound white granite and stretch’d away till lost among these fastnesses—in all of it no sign of man’s habitation. Be sure I look’d along it, and to right and left, dreading to spy more troopers. But for mile on mile, all was desolate.
Now and then I caught the cry of a pewit, or saw a snipe glance up from his bed; but mainly I was busied about the mare. “Let us but gain the ridge ahead,” thought I, “and there is a chance.” So I rode as light as I could, husbanding her powers.
She was going her best, but the best was near spent. The sweat was oozing, her satin coat losing the gloss, the spume flying back from her nostrils—“Soh!” I called to her: “Soh! my beauty; we ride to save an army!” The loose stones flew right and left, as she reach’d out her neck, and her breath came shorter and shorter.
A mile, and another mile, we passed in this trim, and by the end of it must have spent three-quarters of an hour at the work. Glancing back, I saw the troopers scattered; far behind, but following. The heights were still a weary way ahead: but I could mark their steep sides ribb’d with boulders. Till these were passed, there was no chance to hide. The parties in this race could see each other all the way, and must ride it out.
And all the way the ground kept rising. I had no means to ease the mare, even by pulling off my heavy jack-boots, with one arm (and that my right) dangling useless. Once she flung up her head and I caught sight of her nostril, red as fire, and her poor eyes starting. I felt her strength ebbing between my knees. Here and there she blundered in her stride. And somewhere, over the ridge yonder, lay the Army of the West, and we alone could save it.
The road, for half a mile, now fetched a sudden loop, though the country on either side was level enough. Had my head been cool, I must have guessed a reason for this: but, you must remember, I had long been giddy with pain and loss of blood—so, thinking to save time, I turned Molly off the granite, and began to cut across.
The short grass and heath being still frozen, we went fairly for the first minute or so. But away behind us, I heard a shout—and it must have been loud to reach me. I learn’d the meaning when, about two hundred yards before we came on the road again, the mare’s forelegs went deep, and next minute we were plunging in a black peat-quag.
Heaven can tell how we won through. It must have been still partly frozen, and perhaps we were only on the edge of it. I only know that as we scrambled up on solid ground, plastered and breathless, I looked at the wintry sun, the waste, and the tall hill tow’ring to the right of us, and thought it a strange place to die in.
For the struggle had burst open my wound again, and the blood was running down my arm and off my fingers in a stream. And now I could count every gorsebush, every stone—and now I saw nothing at all. And I heard the tinkling of bells: and then found a tune running in my head—’twas “Tire me in tiffany,” and I tried to think where last I heard it.
But sweet gallant Molly must have held on: for the next thing I woke up to was a four-hol’d cross beside the road: and soon after we were over the ridge and clattering down hill.
A rough tor had risen full in front, but the road swerved to the left and took us down among the spurs of it. Now was my last lookout. I tried to sway less heavily in the saddle, and with my eyes searched the plain at our feet.
Alas! Beneath us the waste land was spread, mile upon mile: and I groaned aloud. For just below I noted a clump of roofless cabins, and beyond, upon the moors, the dotted walls of sheep-cotes, ruined also: but in all the sad-color’d leagues no living man, nor the sign of one. It was done with us. I reined up the mare—and then, in the same motion, wheeled her sharp to the right.
High above, on the hillside, a voice was calling.
I look’d up. Below the steeper ridge of the tor a patch of land had been cleared for tillage: and here a yoke of oxen was moving leisurely before a plough (’twas their tinkling bells I had heard, just now); while behind followed the wildest shape—by the voice, a woman.
She was not calling to me, but to her team: and as I put Molly at the slope, her chant rose and fell in the mournfullest singsong.
“So-hoa! Oop Comely Vean! oop, then—o-oop!”
I rose in my stirrups and shouted.
At this and the sound of hoofs, she stay’d the plough and, hand on hip, looked down the slope. The oxen, softly rattling the chains on their yoke, turn’d their necks and gazed. With sunk head Molly heaved herself up the last few yards and came to a halt with a stagger. I slipp’d out of the saddle and stood, with a hand on it, swaying.
“What’s thy need, young man—that comest down to Temple wi’ sword a-danglin’?”
The girl was a half-naked savage, dress’d only in a strip of sacking that barely reach’d her knees, and a scant bodice of the same, lac’d in front with pack thread, that left her bosom and brown arms free. Yet she appear’d no whit abash’d, but lean’d on the plough-tail and regarded me, easy and frank, as a man would.
“Sell me a horse,” I blurted out: “Twenty guineas will I give for one within five minutes, and more if he be good! I ride on the King’s errand.”
“Then get thee back to thy master, an’ say, no horse shall he have o’ me—nor any man that uses horseflesh so.” She pointed to Molly’s knees, that were bow’d and shaking, and the bloody froth dripping from her mouth.
“Girl, for God’s sake sell me a horse! They are after me, and I am hurt.” I pointed up the road. “Better than I are concerned in this.”
“God nor King know I, young man. But what’s on thy saddle cloth, there?”
’Twas the smear where my blood had soak’d: and looking and seeing the purple mess cak’d with mud and foam on the sorrel’s flank, I felt suddenly very sick. The girl made a step to me.
“Sell thee a horse? Hire thee a bedman, more like. Nay, then, lad—”
But I saw her no longer: only called “oh-oh!” twice, like a little child, and slipping my hold of the saddle, dropp’d forward on her breast.
* * * * * * *
Waking, I found myself in darkness—not like that of night, but of a room where the lights have gone out: and felt that I was dying. But this hardly seem’d a thing to be minded. There was a smell of peat and bracken about. Presently I heard the tramp of feet somewhere overhead, and a dull sound of voices that appear’d to be cursing.
The footsteps went to and fro, the voices muttering most of the time. After a bit I caught a word—“Witchcraft”: and then a voice speaking quite close—“There’s blood ’pon her hands, an’ there’s blood yonder by the plough.” Said another voice, higher and squeaky, “there’s scent behind a fox, but you don’t dig it up an’ take it home.” The tramp passed on, and the voices died away.
By this I knew the troopers were close, and seeking me. A foolish thought came that I was buried, and they must be rummaging over my grave: but indeed I had no wish to enquire into it; no wish to move even, but just to lie and enjoy the lightness of my limbs. The blood was still running. I felt the warmth of it against my back: and thought it very pleasant. So I shut my eyes and dropp’d off again.
Then I heard the noise of shouting, far away: and a long while after that, was rous’d by the touch of a hand, thrust in against my naked breast, over my heart.
“Who is it?” I whispered.
“Joan,” answered a voice, and the hand was withdrawn.
The darkness had lifted somewhat, and though something stood between me and the light, I mark’d a number of small specks, like points of gold dotted around me—
“Joan—what besides?”
“Joan’s enough, I reckon: lucky for thee ’tis none else. Joan o’ the Tor folks call me, but may jet be Joan i’ Good Time. So hold thy peace, lad, an’ cry out so little as may be.”
I felt a ripping of my jacket sleeve and shirt, now clotted and stuck to the flesh. It pain’d cruelly, but I shut my teeth: and after that came the smart and delicious ache of water, as she rinsed the wound.
“Clean through the flesh, lad:—in an’ out, like country dancin’. No bullet to probe nor bone to set. Heart up, soce! Thy mother shall kiss thee yet. What’s thy name?”
“Marvel, Joan—Jack Marvel.”
“An’ marvel ’tis thou’rt Marvel yet. Good blood there’s in thee, but little enow.”
She bandaged the sore with linen torn from my shirt, and tied it round with sackcloth from her own dress. ’Twas all most gently done: and then I found her arms under me, and myself lifted as easy as a baby.
“Left arm round my neck, Jack: an’ sing out if ’tis hurtin’ thee.”
It seemed but six steps and we were out on the bright hillside, not fifty paces from where the plough yet stood in the furrow. I caught a glimpse of a brown neck and a pair of firm red lips, of the grey tor stretching above us and, further aloft, a flock of field fare hanging in the pale sky; and then shut my eyes for the dazzle: but could still feel the beat of Joan’s heart as she held me close, and the touch of her breath on my forehead.
Down the hill she carried me, picking the softest turf, and moving with an easeful swing that rather lull’d my hurt than jolted it. I was dozing, even, when a strange noise awoke me.
’Twas a high protracted note, that seem’d at first to swell up toward us, and then broke off in half a dozen or more sharp yells. Joan took no heed of them, but seeing my eyes unclose, and hearing me moan, stopped short.
“Hurts thee, lad?”
“No.” ’Twas not my pain but the sight of the sinking sun that wrung the exclamation from me—“I was thinking,” I muttered.
“Don’t: ’tis bad for health. But bide thee still a-while, and shalt lie ’pon a soft bed.”
By this time, we had come down to the road: and the yells were still going on, louder than ever. We cross’d the road, descended another slope, and came all at once on a low pile of buildings that a moment before had been hid. ’Twas but three hovels of mud, stuck together in the shape of a headless cross, the main arm pointing out toward the moor. Around the whole ran a battered wall, patched with furs; and from this dwelling the screams were issuing—
“Joan!” the voice began, “Joan—Jan Tergagle’s a-clawin’ my legs—Gar-rout, thou hell cat—Blast thee, let me zog! Pull’n off Joan—Jo-an!”
The voice died away into a wail; then broke out in a racket of curses. Joan stepped to the door and flung it wide. As my eyes grew used to the gloom inside, they saw this:—
A rude kitchen—the furniture but two rickety chairs, now toss’d on their faces, an oak table, with legs sunk into the earth, a keg of strong waters, tilted over and draining upon the mud floor, a ladder leading up to a loft, and in two of the corners a few bundles of bracken strewn for bedding. To the left, as one entered, was an open hearth; but the glowing peat-turves were now pitch’d to right and left over the hearthstone and about the floor, where they rested, filling the den with smoke. Under one of the chairs a black cat spat and bristled: while in the middle of the room, barefooted in the embers, crouched a man. He was half naked, old and bent, with matted grey hair and beard hanging almost to his waist. His chest and legs were bleeding from a score of scratches; and he pointed at the cat, opening and shutting his mouth like a dog, and barking out curse upon curse.
No way upset, Joan stepped across the kitchen, laid me on one of the bracken beds, and explain’d—
“That’s feyther: he’s drunk.”
With which she turn’d, dealt the old man a cuff that stretch’d him senseless, and gathering up the turves, piled them afresh on the hearth. This done, she took the keg and gave me a drink of it. The stuff scalded me, but I thanked her. And then, when she had shifted my bed a bit, to ease the pain of lying, she righted a chair, drew it up and sat beside me. The old man lay like a log where he had fallen, and was now snoring. Presently, the fumes of the liquor, or mere faintness, mastered me, and my eyes closed. But the picture they closed upon was that of Joan, as she lean’d forward, chin on hand, with the glow of the fire on her brown skin and in the depths of her dark eyes.
[Illustration: Joan]
CHAPTER XII. — HOW JOAN SAVED THE ARMY OF THE WEST; AND SAW THE FIGHT ON BRADDOCK DOWN.
But the pain of my hurt followed into my dreams. I woke with a start, and tried to sit up.
Within the kitchen all was quiet. The old savage was still stretch’d on the floor: the cat curled upon the hearth. The girl had not stirr’d: but looking toward the window hole, I saw night out side, and a frosty star sparkling far down in the west.
“Joan, what’s the hour?”
“Sun’s been down these four hours.” She turned her face to look at me.
“I’ve no business lying here.”
“Chose to come, lad: none axed thee, that I knows by.”
“Where’s the mare? Must set me across her back, Joan, and let me ride on.”
“Mare’s in stable, wi’ fetlocks swelled like puddens. Chose to come, lad; an’ choose or no, must bide.”
“’Tis for the General Hopton, at Bodmin, I am bound, Joan; and wound or no, must win there this night.”
“And that’s seven mile away: wi’ a bullet in thy skull, and a peat quag thy burial. For they went south, and thy road lieth more south than west.”
“The troopers?”
“Aye, Jack: an’ work I had this day wi’ those same bloody warriors: but take a sup at the keg, and bite this manchet of oat cake while I tell thee.”
And so, having fed me, and set my bed straight, she sat on the floor beside me (for the better hearing), and in her uncouth tongue, told how I had been saved. I cannot write her language; but the tale, in sum, was this:—
When I dropp’d forward into her arms, Joan for a moment was taken aback, thinking me dead. But (to quote her) “‘no good,’ said I, ‘in cuddlin’ a lad ’pon the hillside, for folks to see, tho’ he have a-got curls like a wench: an’ dead or ‘live, no use to wait for others to make sure.’”
So she lifted and carried me to a spot hard by, that she called the “Jew’s Kitchen;” and where that was, even with such bearings as I had, she defied me to discover. There was no time to tend me, whilst Molly stood near to show my whereabouts: so she let me lie, and went to lead the sorrel down to stable.
Her hand was on the bridle when she heard a Whoop! up the road; and there were half a dozen riders on the crest, and tearing down hill toward her. Joan had nothing left but to feign coolness, and went on leading the mare down the slope.
In a while, up comes the foremost trooper, draws rein, and pants out “Where’s he to?”
“Who?” asks Joan, making out to be surprised.
“Why, the lad whose mare thou’rt leadin’?”
“Mile an’ half away by now.”
“How’s that?”
“Freshly horsed,” explains Joan.
The troopers—they were all around her by this—swore ’twas a lie; but luckily, being down in the hollow, could not see over the next ridge. They began a string of questions all together: but at last a little tun bellied sergeant call’d “Silence!” and asked the girl, “did she loan the fellow a horse?”
Here I will quote her again:—
“‘Sir, to thee,’ I answer’d, ‘no loan at all, but fair swap for our Grey Robin.’
“‘That’s a lie,’ he says; ’an’ I won’t believe thee.’
“‘Might so well,’ says I; ‘but go to stable, an’ see for thysel’ (Never had grey horse to my name, Jack; but, thinks I, that’s his’n lookout.)”
They went, did these simple troopers, to look at the stable, and sure enough, there was no Grey Robin. Nevertheless, some amongst them had logic enough to take this as something less than proof convincing, and spent three hours and more ransacking the house and barn, and searching the tor and the moors below it. I learn’d too, that Joan had come in for some rough talk—to which she put a stop, as she told me, by offering to fight any man Jack of them for the buttons on his buffcoat. And at length, about sundown, they gave up the hunt, and road away over the moors toward Warleggan, having (as the girl heard them say) to be at Braddock before night.
“Where is this Braddock?”
“Nigh to Lord Mohun’s house at Boconnoc: seven mile away to the south, and seven mile or so from Bodmin, as a crow flies.”
“Then go I must,” cried I: and hereupon I broke out with all the trouble that was on my mind, and the instant need to save these gallant gentlemen of Cornwall, ere two armies should combine against them. I told of the King’s letter in my breast, and how I found the Lord Stamford’s men at Launceston; how that Ruthen, with the vanguard of the rebels, was now at Liskeard, with but a bare day’s march between the two, and none but I to carry the warning. And “Oh, Joan!” I cried, “my comrade I left upon the road. Brighter courage and truer heart never man proved, and yet left by me in the rebels’ hands. Alas! that I could neither save nor help, but must still ride on: and here is the issue—to lie struck down within ten mile of my goal—I, that have traveled two hundred. And if the Cornishmen be not warned to give fight before Lord Stamford come up, all’s lost. Even now they be outnumber’d. So lift me, Joan, and set me astride Molly, and I’ll win to Bodmin yet.”
“Reckon, Jack, thou’d best hand me thy letter.”
Now, I did not at once catch the intent of these words, so simply spoken; but stared at her like an owl.
“There’s horse in stall, lad,” she went on, “tho’ no Grey Robin. Tearaway’s the name, and strawberry the color.”
“But, Joan, Joan, if you do this—feel inside my coat here, to the left—you will save an army, girl, maybe a throne! Here ’tis, Joan, see—no, not that—here! Say the seal is that of the Governor of Bristol, who stole it from me for a while: but the handwriting will be known for the King’s: and no hand but yours must touch it till you stand before Sir Ralph Hopton. The King shall thank you, Joan; and God will bless you for’t.”
“Hope so, I’m sure. But larn me what to say, lad: for I be main thick witted.”
So I told her the message over and over, till she had it by heart.
“Shan’t forgit, now,” she said, at length; “an’ so hearken to me for a change. Bide still, nor fret thysel’. Here’s pasty an’ oat cake, an’ a keg o’ water that I’ll stow beside thee. Pay no heed to feyther, an’ if he wills to get drunk an’ fight wi’ Jan Tergagle—that’s the cat—why let’n. Drunk or sober, he’s no ’count.”
She hid the letter in her bosom, and stepp’d to the door. On the threshold she turned—
“Jack—forgot to ax: what be all this bloodshed about?”
“For Church and King, Joan.”
“H’m: same knowledge ha’ I o’ both—an’ that’s naught. But I dearly loves fair play.”
She was gone. In a minute or so I heard the trampling of a horse: and then, with a scurry of hoofs, Joan was off on the King’s errand, and riding into the darkness.
Little rest had I that night; but lay awake on my bracken bed and watched the burning peat-turves turn to grey, and drop, flake by flake, till only a glowing point remained. The door rattled now and then on the hinge: out on the moor the light winds kept a noise persistent as town dogs at midnight: and all the while my wound was stabbing, and the bracken pricking me till I groaned aloud.
As day began to break, the old man picked himself up, yawned and lounged out, returning after a time with fresh turves for the hearth. He noticed me no more than a stone, but when the fire was restack’d, drew up his chair to the warmth, and breakfasted on oat cake and a liberal deal of liquor. Observing him, the black cat uncoil’d, stretch’d himself, and climbing to his master’s knee, sat there purring, and the best of friends. I also judged it time to breakfast: found my store: took a bite or two, and a pull at the keg, and lay back—this time to sleep.
When I woke, ’twas high noon. The door stood open, and outside on the wall the winter sunshine was lying, very bright and clear. Indoors, the old savage had been drinking steadily; and still sat before the fire, with the cat on one knee, and his keg on the other. I sat up and strain’d my ears. Surely, if Joan had not failed, the royal generals would march out and give battle at once: and surely, if they were fighting, not ten miles away, some sound of it would reach me. But beyond the purring of the cat, I heard nothing.
I crawl’d to my feet, rested a moment to stay the giddiness, and totter’d across to the door, where I lean’d, listening and gazing south. No strip of vapor lay on the moors that stretch’d—all bathed in the most wonderful bright colors—to the lip of the horizon. The air was like a sounding board. I heard the bleat of an old wether, a mile off, upon the tors; and was turning away dejected, when, far down in the south, there ran a sound that set my heart leaping.
’Twas the crackling of musketry.
There was no mistaking it. The noise ran like wildfire along the hills: before echo could overtake it, a low rumbling followed, and then the brisker crackling again. I caught at the door post and cried, faint with the sudden joy—
“Thou angel, Joan!—thou angel!”
And then, as something took me by the throat—“Joan, Joan—to see what thou seest!”
A long time I lean’d by the door post there, drinking in the sound that now was renewed at quicker intervals. Yet, for as far as I could see, ’twas the peacefullest scene, though dreary—quiet sunshine on the hills, and the sheep dotted here and there, cropping. But down yonder, over the edge of the moors, men were fighting and murdering each other: and I yearn’d to see how the day went.
Being both weak and loth to miss a sound of it, I sank down on the threshold, and there lay, with my eyes turned southward, through a gap in the stone fence. In a while the musketry died away, and I wondered: but thought I could still at times mark a low sound as of men shouting, and this, as I learn’d after, was the true battle.
It must have been an hour or more before I saw a number of black specks coming over the ridge of hills, and swarming down into the plain toward me: and then a denser body following. ’Twas a company of horse, moving at a great pace: and I guessed that the battle was done, and these were the first fugitives of the beaten army.
On they came, in great disorder, scattering as they advanced: and now, in parts, the hill behind was black with footmen, running. ’Twas a rout, sure enough. Once or twice, on the heights, I heard a bugle blown, as if to rally the crowd: but saw nothing come of it, and presently the notes ceased, or I forgot to listen.
The foremost company of horse was heading rather to the eastward of me, to gain the high road; and the gross pass’d me by at half a mile’s distance. But some came nearer, and to my extreme joy, I learn’d from their arms and shouting, what till now I had been eagerly hoping, that ’twas the rebel army thus running in rout: and tho’ now without strength to kneel, I had enough left to thank God heartily.
’Twas so curious to see the plain thus suddenly fill’d with rabble, all running from the south, and the silly startled sheep rushing helter-skelter, and huddling together on the tors above, that I forgot my own likely danger if any of this revengeful crew should come upon me lying there: and was satisfied to watch them as they straggled over the moors toward the road. Some pass’d close to the cottage; but none seem’d anxious to pause there. ’Twas a glad and a sorry sight. I saw a troop of dragoons with a standard in their midst; and a drummer running behind, too far distracted even to cast his drum away, so that it dangled against his back, with a great rent where the music had been; and then two troopers running together; and one that was wounded lay down for a while within a stone’s throw of me, and would not go further, till at last his comrade persuaded him; and after them a larger company, in midst of whom was a man crying, “We are sold, I tell ye, and I can point to the man!” and so passed by. There were some, too, that were galloping three stout horses in a carriage, and upon it a brass twelve pounder. But the carriage stuck fast in a quag, and so they cut the traces and left it there, where, two days after, Sir John Berkeley’s dragoons found and pulled it out. And this was the fourth, I had heard, that the King’s troops took in that victory.
Yet there were not above five or six hundred in all that I saw; and I guessed (as was the case) that this must be but an off-shoot, so to say, of the bigger rout that pass’d eastward through Liskeard. I was thinking of this when I heard footsteps near, and a man came panting through a gap in the wall, into the yard.
He was a big, bareheaded fellow, exceedingly flush’d with running, but unhurt, as far as I could see. Indeed, he might easily have kill’d me, and for a moment I thought sure he would. But catching sight of me, he nodded very friendly, and sitting on a heap of stones a yard or two away, began to draw off his boot, and search for a prickle, that it seem’d had got into it.
“’Tis a mess of it, yonder,” said he, quietly, and jerk’d his thumb over his shoulder.
By the look of me, he could tell I was on the other side; but this did not appear to concern him.
“How has it gone?” asked I. “Well,” says he, with his nose in the boot; “we had a pretty rising ground, and the Cornishmen march’d up and whipp’d us out—that’s all—and took a mort o’ prisoners.” He found the prickle, drew on his boot again, and asked—
“T’other side?”
I nodded.
“That’s the laughing side, this day. Good evening.”
And with that he went off as fast as he came.
’Twas, may be, an hour after, that another came in through the same gap: this time a lean, hawk-eyed man, with a pinch’d face and two ugly gashes—one across the brow from left eye to the roots of his hair, the other in his leg below the knee, that had sliced through boot and flesh like a scythe-cut. His face was smear’d with blood, and he carried a musket.
“Water!” he bark’d out as he came trailing into the yard. “Give me water—I’m a dead man!”
He was stepping over me to enter the kitchen, when he halted and said—
“Art a malignant, for certain!”
And before I had a chance to reply, his musket was swung up, and I felt my time was come to die.
But now the old savage, that had been sitting all day before his fire, without so much as a sign to show if he noticed aught that was passing, jump’d up with a yell and leap’d toward us. He and the cat were on the poor wretch together, tearing and clawing. I can hear their hellish outcries to this day: but at the moment they turn’d me faint. And the next thing I recall is being dragged inside by the old man, who shut the door after me and slipp’d the bolt, leaving the wounded trooper on the other side. He beat against it for some time, sobbing piteously for water: and then I heard him groaning at intervals, till he died. At least, the groans ceased; and next day he was found with his back against the cottage wall, stark and dead.
Having pulled me inside, Joan’s father must have thought he had done enough: for on the floor I lay for hours, and passed from one swoon into another. He and the cat had gone back to the fire again, and long before evening both were sound asleep.
So there I lay helpless, till, at nightfall, there came the trampling of a horse outside, and then a rap on the door. The old man started up and opened it: and in rushed Joan, her eyes lit up, her breast heaving, and in her hand a naked sword.
“Church and King, Jack!” she cried, and flung the blade with a clang on to the table. “Church and King! O brave day’s work, lad—O bloody work this day!”
And I swooned again.