Gabriel’s swoon must have lasted long, for it was quite dark when he again came to himself, he was too weak from loss of blood to wish definitely to live, though still the dead Scotsman’s words sounded in his ears and braced him to a certain extent, kept him, at any rate, from voluntarily letting go his precarious hold on life. Then a memory of Falkland’s pitying face came back to him, and he tried to think how it could have been possible that the Secretary of State should be there just at that minute. Early in the afternoon he had seen him with Wilmot’s men and had been surprised that one in his position should have exposed himself so needlessly. It must, he imagined, have been while returning with Wilmot from the pursuit of Fielding’s routed troop that he had chanced to ride in his direction. He moved a little, longing to make out where he lay, and how the day had gone, but the frightful agony of the attempt quickly made him desist; he sank down with his head propped up a little on the dead body of the horse which Falkland had put out of its pain.
And now he could make out here and there fires at some little distance on his left, while two or three fires on the top of Edgehill led him to think that the Royalists had retired again up the heights, and that Essex’s army intended to remain on the field throughout the night. Doubtless, in the morning, hostilities would be resumed.
The far away sound of a psalm raised him for a time above his pain; he prayed silently for the cause that had cost him so dear, and his thoughts wandered back to his home and to Hilary. How her face would have lighted up if he could have told her about Lord Falkland! Somehow, he could almost fancy the same pitying tone in her voice, had she come upon him in so terrible a plight. The thought gave him no little comfort.
But what was this horrible cold creeping over him? This icy chill which made the torture of his wound almost intolerable? Was this how death came when men were left to bleed on the battle-field? Was the death he had once so ardently desired coming to him now? All the youth within him rose up as if in protest. He longed, with an agony of longing, to live, and be once more physically strong.
Very quickly, however, the lifelong habit of direct and most simple communion with the Unseen came to his aid. And in answer to his cry he heard the comforting words, “The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by Him.” What did it matter whether life went on here or in some other world, since neither death, nor life, nor principalities, nor powers, could separate him from the love of God?
The sharp frost and the bitter, nipping cold of that autumn night killed some of the wounded, but saved many by the painful process of freezing their wounds and thus staunching the blood. When the age-long hours had been lived through, and the next day dawned, Gabriel was quite unable to move, even when he heard footsteps and voices close by, he was too dull and exhausted to call for aid; it was not until a young, vigorous-looking man, with a mass of wavy golden hair, stooped over him, that he raised himself to see whether he had fallen into the hands of friend or foe. The green coat and orange scarf told him in a moment that this was one of Colonel Hampden’s men.
“What of the battle?” he asked, faintly.
“Neither side was wholly victorious, but in the main they say that we made the best fight, as our infantry and cavalry acted better together. But doubtless the finest charge of the day was Prince Rupert’s.”
The momentary light in Gabriel’s face died out. The speaker broke off hurriedly and moistened the dry lips of the wounded man with water.
“You are badly hurt,” he exclaimed. “We will get you carried to Kineton, where the surgeons will attend to you.”