“No more he would,” said Moylin, “he’d be afraid of what might happen him after, but I never said he’d help us. It’s my belief he’s gone off out of this in dread of what may happen in Antrim to-day. He’ll be at his brother’s farm away down the Six Mile Water.”
“Well,” said Donald, “it doesn’t matter about him. The question is, how are we to get something to eat?”
A long consultation followed. There were serious difficulties. The amount of food required for seven hungry men was considerable, and Donald Ward insisted strongly on the necessity of having a good meal. It was decided at last that two of the party should venture into Antrim to buy bread and wine. No one knew what troops there might be in the town. It would not be safe to count on the support of the inhabitants if they happened to have soldiers in their houses. The inns might be full of officers. The shops might be in the hands of the royal troops.
“It’s no use discussing the difficulties and dangers,” said Donald at last. “We’ve got to risk it. We can’t fight all day on empty stomachs. We’d fight badly if we did. I and Neal here will go into Antrim, we’re the least likely to be recognised. The rest of you are known men. We’ll bring you back something to eat.”
At eight o’clock they set out, and reached the town just as the people were beginning to open their doors. Donald Ward pressed some money into Neal’s hand.
“Go into the inn where we stopped,” he said. “Get a couple of bottles of wine and some cold meat if you can. I’ll go on to the baker’s. We’ll meet again opposite the church. If I’m not there in twenty minutes go back without me; I’ll wait that long for you. Walk in as if you owned the shanty. There’s nothing starts suspicion as quick as looking frightened. Bluster a bit if they look crooked at you, and answer no questions for anybody.”
Neal did his best to follow the advice. But it is not easy for a man who has slept two successive nights in the open, who has had no opportunity of shaving, and who has crawled in ditches for several miles, to assume the airs of an opulent and self-contented tourist. Neal was painfully conscious that he must look like a disreputable tramp. Nevertheless he squared his shoulders, held up his head, and jingled his money in his pocket as he passed through the door. He called valiantly for the master. A girl, tousle-headed and heavy-eyed, looking as if she, too, had slept on a hillside or slept very little in bed, came to him. He recognised her as the same who had waited on him and Donald when they spent the night in the inn. She was sharp-sighted in spite of her sleeplessness. She knew Neal.
“In there with you,” she said, pointing to a door, “I’ll get you what you’re after wanting. The dear knows there’s broken meat in plenty here the morn.”
Neal entered the room. The table was littered with the remains of breakfast. A large party had evidently been there and had gone. Neal guessed that at least a dozen people had sat at the table. With his back to the room, looking out of the window, stood a young man, booted and spurred for riding, well dressed, well groomed, a sword by his side. His figure struck Neal as being familiar. A second glance made him sure that this was Maurice St. Clair. For a moment he hesitated. Then he said—
“Maurice.”