“Let me be!” said Gabriel, wearily. “The war has robbed me of all I value in life; for God’s sake, let me die in peace.”
“That will I not,” said the other, firmly. “You are but worn out with suffering; remember that the country yet needs you.”
He beckoned to two soldiers with a roughly extemporised litter, and then went on to look for others in need of help.
“Who is yon officer?” asked Gabriel, as the men set down the litter beside him.
“’Tis Cornet Joscelyn Heyworth,” replied the soldier, and without any loss of time he lifted Gabriel with little care and less skill from the ground, a process fraught with such hideous pain that a cry was wrung from his lips.
Joscelyn Heyworth hastily rejoined them.
“Take your water bottle to yonder man by the carcase of the white horse,” he said. “I will help to carry this gentleman to Kineton.”
Gabriel gave him a grateful look, but he was past speaking, and could with difficulty strangle his groans through the long rough journey.
At last he saw the church and the welcome sight of the houses in the little market town. His bearers hesitated for a minute as to where to take him.
“Try the house of Manoah Mills, the saddler,” he said, with an effort. Somehow the recollection of Tibbie’s motherly face carried with it a world of comfort.