“You will see what time brings forth,” he said. “I should rest better in my grave could I think that Nell would be your wife.”
But Gabriel, though moved by his friend’s eagerness, could not be false to himself.
“I will promise, sir, to be her friend and protector,” he said, “when I am out of prison. But to promise more than that would be no true kindness to her.”
“The bugle sounds,” said the Major. “Come, help me to mount for the last time. Most truly did the Psalmist sing, ‘A horse is a vain thing to save a man.’ We owe our capture to poor Harkaway’s friendly greeting of the enemy’s steeds.” Gabriel tried to smile at the jest.
“We must take the fortune of war,” he replied, cheerfully. But as the weary journey continued in the hot afternoon sun, the Major’s strength waned perceptibly, and when at last they reached Marlborough, and were halted in its wide street, he seemed scarcely conscious, though he still kept in the saddle.
A kindly-looking woman came out from one of the houses with a large earthenware mug of home-brewed ale, which she offered to him. He revived a little, thanked her courteously, and made one of his usual little jokes, but with so piteous an effort that Gabriel felt a choking sensation in his throat. He was glad that they were at that moment ordered to march to St. Peter’s Church, in which the prisoners were to be sheltered for the night.
The soldiers untied Major Locke and carried him into the building, putting him down on the chancel floor that he might be a little removed from the noise and confusion in the nave, into which the soldiers were driving the weary prisoners roped together in pairs.
Gabriel, relieved to find his right arm available again, dragged down an old moth-eaten cushion from the pulpit and placed it under the Major’s head, removed his helmet and chafed his cold, clammy hands. But the lack of all comforts baffled his efforts, and he knew that after the long, hot ride the mere chill of the flagstones was the very worst thing for one in his state. He raised him a little, propping up the grey head on his own shoulder.
“You will send the news to Nell,” said the dying man, faintly.
“Yes; but good news I hope,” said Gabriel. “Captain Tarverfield will, I think, remember his promise of help, and a surgeon may do much for you. I hear steps drawing near, maybe he hath already sent. No, ’tis but the sentry.”