"Who the blazes are you?" Tim asked sceptically.
It was with a touch of the Irish brogue that a cheery voice answered. "A friend to a friend," said the bowman, "and the devil to a foe."
"Irish?" Tim questioned.
"Citizen of the world in time past ... now a citizen of heaven."
Tim gazed at the strange man in earnest scrutiny. He appeared quite at his ease with bullets whining around him and he unslung a jack of wine and drank.
"May a parched man claim a drink of your wine?" Tim cried.
"Give what you have, ask what you need. That is the De Gamelyn code of law," said the man, and handed Tim the flagon.
"You are cheerful, sir," said Tim, his blood somewhat warmed by the wine. "In the name of the devil, who are you, and of what country?"
"My name is Nigel De Gamelyn. My Mother, dear soul, was French. My father was wise enough to be an Irishman. So much for my blood, which unites happily the practical and the dreamer fluids. I am of no country but I know all places from the King's tombs at Rome to the old inns that stand about the upper Arun. I have marched with armies over this territory aforetime. There is no shadow, I believe, on my soul, has such strength in him as I, and I rest content to be nothing to myself and all things to every man. That being bliss."
As the bowman spoke, a bullet kicked up a cloud of dust at his feet.