“No, sir. Praised be St. Patrick! I am Irish,” said the soldier, with a good-natured smile.
“Irish!” exclaimed Gabriel in amazement. For to his fancy all the Irish were wild, bloodthirsty Papists, whose chief amusement was the wholesale massacre of Protestants. The incident did more to widen his mind than the study even of such a broad-minded book as Lord Brooke’s “Treatise on Toleration.”
“How is Major Locke?” he asked, anxiously.
“I have given him water, sir,” said the man; “but there’s death in his face—he’ll not last long.”
And with that he went on his round, leaving the prisoner to reflect over the events of the day, and to endure as best he could the increasing torture of his position.
Slowly the hours crept on, and when at length the sentry opened the great door and admitted Captain Tarverfield and two others that accompanied him, Gabriel was too much exhausted to take any notice of the sounds which echoed distinctly enough through the quiet church.
“Take the surgeon to Major Locke,” said Captain Tarverfield. “Is he still living?”
“Yes, sir,” said the Irishman, “he lies in the chancel. And perhaps, sir, you’ll do something for Lieutenant Harford up yonder—as for me, yer honour, the Colonel vowed he’d half murther me if I unloosed him.”
“If ’tis the Colonel’s doing I must ask your help, my Lord,” said the Captain, turning to his worn and weary-looking companion.
“Lieutenant Harford is the gentleman you mentioned to me anon?” said Lord Falkland. “He told you I saved his life at Edgehill? Well, let us see what the sentry means.”