Suddenly, a volley of musketry was fired from the hill to the right. Desmond staggered for a moment in the saddle, and the bridle fell from his left hand. Mike was by his side in a moment.
"Where are you hurt, master?"
"In the left wrist, I fancy. By the way the hand hangs down, it must have smashed both bones. However, there is no time to wait, now. It is a matter of life and death to get to Diepenbeck."
"One moment, your honour. Let me put your hand into the breast of your coatee; then, if you keep your elbow tight against your body, it will keep it steady."
Although Mike carried out his suggestion as gently as he could, Desmond almost fainted with pain.
"Take a drop of brandy from your flask, master. It won't take half a minute, and then we will be off."
They continued their journey. The rattle of musketry, ahead of them, showed that the combat had already commenced close by; between either the advancing troops of Argyle, or those who had crossed the hill of Royegham; and Grimaldi's brigade, which was probably endeavouring to hold them in check, until the troops at Diepenbeck came back.
It was already too dark to distinguish the uniforms, except at a distance of a few yards. Dashing on, he saw a dark mass ahead--three officers rode out.
"Who are you, sir?" they shouted.
"I am carrying a report from the general," he replied, in English, and without drawing rein dashed on, passing within twenty yards of the column, and reached Diepenbeck without further interruption.