II.
The morning wore away in a sore discomfort until it came near to noon. Upon several occasions we heard folks pass along the road above our heads, and now and then a cart rumbled by, or a horseman made our hiding-place echo with the ring of his beast’s feet. But we heard no more of the cannon nor anything in the neighbouring meadows of our pursuers. As for my lame foot it was so damaged that I could see there was no chance of our going onward that day. The plentiful doses of cold water which I had administered to it had seemed to keep down the inflammation, but the swelling was still so great and the stiffness so stubborn that I could make no use of my leg from the knee downwards.
“Cousin,” says I, “look upon me as done for. I am winged as absolutely as a partridge that can only use its feet. It will be days before I can walk,” I says, groaning more with chagrin than with pain, though I had enough and to spare of that.
“Well?” says she.
“I don’t know what we’re to do next,” says I, sore perplexed. “There isn’t a house nearer than Darrington Mill, and you musn’t go there. If you go along the road to Wentbridge you’ll be seen. But when night falls you might try it, cousin. Dare you travel alone?” I says.
She looked round at me and laughed.
“Dare!” says she. “Dare, indeed!”
“Then will you?” says I.
“No,” says she, prompt enough.
“And why not?” says I.
“Because I shall not leave you,” says she.
“Why,” says I, “that’s very kind of you, cousin, but I wish I could see you in safety.”
“’Tis not my fashion to run away when things come to the worst,” says she.
“’Gad, mistress!” says I, somewhat nettled. “I don’t know which smarts the more—your tongue or this plaguey leg of mine. But you might be more civil,” I says.
“Was I uncivil?” says she, making a great show of innocence with her eyes.
“I know what you meant,” I says, turning surly again.
“Well,” she says, speaking very polite and gentle, “confess, cousin, that if you hadn’t persuaded me to leave the house, we should not have been burrowing in this ditch, half-starved to death.”
“No,” says I, “that’s true enough. But I would rather burrow in a ditch and have my life, than swing to the branch of a tree, or stand before a file of troopers with my kerchief tied about my eyes. And I think,” says I, regarding her narrowly, “that you would prefer your liberty even in a hole like this to being handed over to Anthony Dacre.”
She gave me a cool stare.
“And what harm would there be in that?” says she.
“What?” says I.
“I say what harm would there be in that?” she says.
“Oh, you did say so, did you?” says I. “Faith, I thought you did, but then I thought you didn’t.”
“And why shouldn’t I?” says she.
“Nay,” says I, “how do I know? I have given up trying to understand women.”
“Anthony Dacre,” says she, musingly, “is a handsome man, and a most devoted cavalier.”
“I wish I had my fingers at his throat!” says I.
“No man could be more attentive to ladies than he,” she says, still musing. “His manner is of the best.”
“Is it?” says I. “I wish he would come here and show us some of it.”
“He looks better in a withdrawing-room,” says she, giving the merest glance at my torn and mud-stained garments.
“I daresay he will grace some corner of hell,” says I, savage as a bear with a sore lug.
She turned and looked at me.
“You and I don’t seem to agree,” she says.
“Faith! I don’t care whether we do or not!” I says, like to weep with the pain of my foot, and the vexation into which she threw me.
She gave me a sharp glance, and suddenly I saw her eyes melt in the curiousest fashion. She was sitting near me on the wet stones and she put out her hand to mine with a quick gesture. But what she had it in mind to say or do——
There was a rustle at the mouth of the bridge, and we turned our heads to see a great hound glaring at us from between the bushes that his shoulders had pushed aside. “Tracked, by God!” says I, and without a thought I snatched a pistol from my belt and fired at the brute’s open jaws. He fell, a quivering heap, into the stream at our feet, and the noise of the pistol rolled and echoed along the bridge, “Oh, foolish!” she cried, “they will hear it—they cannot be far off.” She looked at the dog and I saw her eyes fill with tears. “Poor dog!” said she.
But now that danger was at hand I was quick to think and to act. I drew out the bag of gold that I had carried—she already had the jewels in another bag—and handed it to her. “Here,” says I, “take this, cousin—and cousin,” I says, “whether we’ve agreed or not don’t forget that I tried to serve you. A curse on this foot o’ mine!” I says, struggling to get into a standing posture, “I’d give anything——”
There came the tramp of feet without and the sound of men pushing their way through the hedgerows. “The dog headed this way,” says a voice. “Why, this is the old bridge!” says another. But by that time I had got to my feet and drawn the other pistol from my belt. “Behind me, Alison!” says I, “We’ll have a life or two ere we yield.”
The bushes were suddenly filled with men. I saw Anthony Dacre’s face amongst the throng, and Merciful Wiggleskirk peering round the corner. I levelled the pistol full at Anthony and laughed to see him duck his head. “Coward!” says Alison in my ear. “Spare your powder for better men, Dick.”
She had never called me Dick before—at any rate, since we were children. I turned hastily to her. “Sweetheart!” I says, “this is the end, but by heaven, I love you!”
After that, I think I must have swooned and fallen. When I came to my senses again I was lying on the road above the bridge, with Alison and Merciful Wiggleskirk at my side, and Anthony Dacre talking to an officer on horseback close by. I strove to rise, half wondering where I was, and it was only the pain in my foot that suddenly reminded me of our position.