“I will be true with you,” he said, firmly. “’Tis not for that I would see him, but I bear despatches to Fairfax and Cromwell, and am in honour bound to see them in safe hands.”
“Despatches!” exclaimed the Vicar with a troubled look. “This is a grave matter. Yet ’twas honest of you to tell me. I think I might at least bring your father to-night to see you.”
“And should I die ere he comes—promise to give them to him,” said Gabriel, pleadingly. “Dying folk must often have asked your aid, Vicar. I ask that—nothing but that?”
“Now, may God forgive me if I do amiss,” muttered the Vicar. Then, turning to meet the eager hazel eyes which watched him so intently, “I promise you, my poor boy. Be at rest.”
After this Gabriel lay with closed eyes until he heard Hilary’s voice.
“I fear we have seemed long,” she said, “and you are suffering so much.”
He smiled. “Not now,” he replied, reviving for a while from sheer happiness in the change that had come over her.
“You little folk run over and play under the apple trees,” said the Vicar to Nan and Meg, “while I tend my patient.”
And with Hilary’s help he rapidly bound up the wounds in a somewhat rough and ready fashion, and put the arm in a sling.
“Captain Harford has told me much, my dear, while you have been gone,” he remarked. “Do you feel disposed to take on you the duties of nurse?”