“Where are you going, boy, and where do you belong to?” the leader of the party asked.
“I am going in search of work,” Malcolm answered. “My village is destroyed and my parents killed.”
“Don't tell me that tale,” the man said, drawing a pistol from his holster. “I can tell by your speech that you are not a native of these parts.”
There was nothing in the appointments of the men to indicate which party they favoured, and Malcolm thought it better to state exactly who he was, for a doubtful answer might be followed by a pistol shot, which would have brought his career to a close.
“You are right,” he said quietly; “but in these times it is not safe always to state one's errand to all comers. I am a Scotch officer in the army of the King of Sweden. I was in New Brandenburg when it was stormed by Tilly. I disguised myself, and, passing unnoticed, was forced to accompany his army as a teamster. The second night I escaped, and am now making my way to Schwedt, where I hope to find the army.”
The man replaced his pistol.
“You are an outspoken lad,” he said laughing, “and a fearless one. I believe that your story is true, for no German boor would have looked me in the face and answered so quietly; but I have heard that the Scotch scarce know what danger is, though they will find Tilly and Pappenheim very different customers to the Poles.”
“Which side do you fight on?” Malcolm asked.
“A frank question and a bold one!” the leader laughed. “What say you, men? Whom are we for just at present? We were for the Imperialists the other day, but now they have marched away, and as it may be the Swedes will be coming in this direction, I fancy that we shall soon find ourselves on the side of the new religion.”
The men laughed. “What shall we do with this boy? To begin with, if he is what he says, no doubt he has some money with him.”