“Poor sufferer!” said Sibyll to the boy; “cheer thee, we will send succour; thou mayest live yet!”
“Water! water!—hell and torture!—water, I say!” groaned the man; “one drop of water!”
It was the captain of the maurauders who had captured the wanderers.
“Thine arm! lift me! move me! That evil man scares my soul from heaven!” gasped the boy.
And Adam preached penitence to the one that cursed, and Sibyll knelt down and prayed with the one that prayed. And up rose the moon!
Lord Hastings sat with his victorious captains—over mead, morat, and wine—in the humble hall of the farm.
“So,” said he, “we have crushed the last embers of the rebellion! This Sir Geoffrey Gates is a restless and resolute spirit; pity he escapes again for further mischief. But the House of Nevile, that overshadowed the rising race, hath fallen at last,—a waisall, brave sirs, to the new men!”
The door was thrown open, and an old soldier entered abruptly.
“My lord! my lord! Oh, my poor son! he cannot be found! The women, who ever follow the march of soldiers, will be on the ground to despatch the wounded, that they may rifle the corpses! O God! if my son, my boy, my only son—”
“I wist not, my brave Mervil, that thou hadst a son in our bands; yet I know each man by name and sight. Courage! Our wounded have been removed, and sentries are placed to guard the field.”