One day he was told off, with a handful of others, for transfer to a stockade on the Delaware, and how his heart beat when he learned that the new prison was within twenty miles of home! His flow of spirits returned, and his new jailers liked him for his frankness and laughed at his honest expletives against the king. He had the liberty of the enclosure, and was not long in finding where the wall was low, the ditch narrow, and the abatis decayed—knowledge that came useful to him sooner than he expected, for one day a captured horse was led in that made straight for him with a whinny and rubbed his nose against his breast.
“Why!” he cried,—“it's Cecil! My horse, gentlemen—or, was. Not a better hunter in Maryland!”
“Yes,” answered one of the officers. “We've just taken him from your brother. He's been stirring trouble with his speeches and has got to be quieted. But we'll have him to-day, for he's to be married, and a scouting party is on the road to nab him at the altar.”
“Married! My brother! What! Ernest, the lawyer, the orator? Ho, ho! Ah, but it's rather hard to break off a match in that style!”
“Hard for him, maybe; but they say the lady feels no great love for him. He made it seem like a duty to her, after her lover died.”
“How's that? Her own—what's her name?”
“Helen—Helen Carmichael, or something like that.”
Field and sky swam before De Courcy's eyes for a moment; then he resumed, in a calm voice, and with a pale, set face, “Well, you're making an unhappy wedding-day for him. If he had Cecil here he would outride you all. Ah, when I was in practice I could ride this horse and snatch a pebble from the ground without losing pace!”
“Could you do it now?”
“I'm afraid long lodging in your prison-ships has stiffened my joints, but I'd venture at a handkerchief.”