“Where have you borne the wounded prisoner?” said the Colonel.
“He lies yonder, sir, in the chancel,” said the sentry, “and is in sore need of a surgeon.”
“Mind your own business,” said the Colonel, sharply. “I shall provide him with all that he merits.”
“And where is our fiery friend, the lieutenant?” said Lord Harry, staggering a little as he followed Norton up the middle aisle, for he had been drinking heavily. “Where is the little preacher?”
“He is here,” said Norton, with his short scoffing laugh; “sitting like an angel on a monument supporting the effigy of a dead saint.”
“Sir,” said Gabriel, “I beg of you to let a surgeon wait upon Major Locke. If the ball were but removed from his wound I think he would recover.”
“Am I to be dictated to first by my own sentry and then by my prisoner?” said Norton, haughtily. “Get up, you vile rebel, or it shall be the worse for you. I see you are not even bound—you need a reminder that you are no free man. Get up, I tell you!”
Gabriel reluctantly obeyed, and laid the Major down as gently as he could on the moth-eaten cushion.
Then he stood silently awaiting his captor’s orders, taking meanwhile a rapid, comprehensive glance at the two officers, Norton with his short fawn and red cloak flung carelessly back over one shoulder, his wide hat and long drooping red feather cocked jauntily to the right side, his handsome, but malicious-looking, face lighted by the sunset glow which streamed through the windows; and Lord Harry laughing, foolishly, in semidrunken light-heartedness, at the thought of the amusement he had planned.
“Come, Colonel,” he said, “when is the sport to begin? But our preacher is scarce in parson’s habit, his knee-breeches and riding-boots are white with dust, and his shirt is like an end of Lent surplice—none of the whitest. I’ll e’en go and plunder the vestry for him.”