So far not a word had been exchanged among us; but now that we were compelled to pause, I turned to our companion and looked at him, in such dim and changing light as there was, with a profound interest. He sat with a tired stoop in his saddle, and his head was bent upon his breast. He wore a peaked forage-cap and a large, rough, military cloak, which effectually disguised his figure.
“This is the Conte di Rossano?” I asked, leaning towards him.
“The same, sir,” he answered, in a voice which I shall never forget. “I know from my faithful friend here, to whom I am indebted, but I cannot distinguish my friends as yet.”
“This is the Honorable George Brunow, sir,” I said, “and I am Captain Fyffe, at your service.”
“Mr. Brunow,” he responded, raising his forage-cap and bowing, “Captain Fyffe, my dear friend Corporal Hinge, I am without words to thank you. God knows I thank you in my heart!”
His voice failed him altogether then, and we all sat silent for a time.
“What are we waiting for?” asked Brunow. “Every minute is precious. Let us push along.”
“You see the ford,” I answered. “It may be passable in an hour, now that the storm has ceased; but at present—”
“Great God!” cried Brunow, with a savage impatience in his tone. “Why didn't we cross by the bridge? We could have made four times the distance by the road!”
“It was a mistake as things have turned out,” I answered; “but we both thought it best when we talked things over the night before last.”