“Yes, he’s dead, he’s dead,” the Speaker broke in, in a rising voice. “The scoundrel has got what he asked for. He’ll never lift his hand against me or my people again!” Jeremy, dismayed and sickened, saw in the old man’s posture something of the inspiration, of the inhuman rage, of a Hebrew prophet. He dared not look at Thomas Wells, from whose grinning mouth, he fancied, as from that of a successful ferret, drops of blood must still be trickling.
“But it was you that gave him into our hands, Jeremy,” the Speaker resumed, in a softer and caressing voice. “You did for him—you killed him. All the thanks is yours, and I shall not be ungrateful!”
The Canadian laughed, low and ironical. Jeremy’s stomach for a moment revolted and a thick mist of horror swam before his eyes.
“Listen! Listen to the bells!”
Jeremy roused himself, cocked his head and listened. He was riding slowly beside the Speaker down the long undulations of the Great North Road that led them back to London. Sure enough, far and faint but insistent, that sweet metallic music reached his ears, a phantom of sound that stood for a reality. London was already rejoicing over its deliverance. A thin haze covered the city; and out of it there rose continuously the ringing of the bells.
“I sent messengers in front of us,” the Speaker went on, with great content. “They will be ready to greet us—to greet you, I ought to say. This has been your battle.”
Jeremy bestirred himself again. An urgent honesty drove him to do what he could to make the truth plain. It was pleasant, and yet intolerable, that he should be saddled with a victory that he had won only because he had been the instrument of fortune. He reasoned earnestly with the old man. He pointed out to him what a piece of luck it had been that the Yorkshiremen were fools enough to leave their transport exposed. He insisted that it was a mere chance that the destruction of their ammunition had thrown them into so disastrous a panic. When at last he was silent, the Speaker resumed, unmoved:
“It was your battle, Jeremy Tuft. You settled them. I was right to rely on you.”
The Canadian, who was riding on the Speaker’s left hand and had not yet uttered a word, breathed again upon the air a shadow of ironical laughter, which Jeremy felt rather than heard, and which the old man disregarded.
“They will come out to meet us,” the Speaker murmured in a rapturous dream, “and you shall be toasted at our banquet. Ah, this is a great day, a wonderful day! England is restored. Happiness and greatness lie before us. I shall be remembered in history with the good Queen Victoria.” He turned a little in the saddle and looked keenly at Jeremy. “Do you not ask what lies before you?”