The soldier approached them and looked down silently at the wounded man. He was a tall, powerful Irishman who had come over to England as one of Strafford’s grooms, and the Major would have shrunk from him in horror had he known his nationality or guessed him to be a devout Roman Catholic. His face bore an expression which gave Gabriel hope.
“Can you not fetch a surgeon?” he asked. “Surely you may do that much for a prisoner.”
“I would do it, sir,” replied the man, “but I am on sentry duty, and bound not to leave the church. But sure, then, before dark one of the officers will go the rounds, and it will be him you can be asking.”
He moved on, but returned presently with a garment which he had found in the vestry.
“Wrap it about the feet of him, sir,” he said. “That’s the best chance for him, for sure this place be as cold as any vault.”
Gabriel thanked him.
“Was popish vestment ever before of such use?” said the Major, smiling faintly. “Yet, beshrew me! there’s something that tickles my fancy not a little in the thought of quitting this world wrapped in a cope!”
“Talk not yet of quitting the world, sir,” said Gabriel. “I have seen worse wounded men recover.” But he argued against his own fears.
The church was now very quiet, the prisoners, hungry and depressed, were trying to forget their wretchedness in sleep, and only the steps of the sentry could be heard echoing at the west end of the building, until, in response to a peremptory summons, he opened the door and admitted Colonel Norton and Lord Harry Dalblane.
Gabriel at once recognised Norton’s voice, and his heart sank.