“Maybe the young cub would like to see his lass before he leaves her. Her face is a bonny one for kissing now.”
Neal shuddered, and turned sick. Beyond the hedge in the trampled grass, among the meadow sweet and the loose strife, lay unnamable horror. He shut his eyes, dreading lest he should be forced to look, but the suggestion was too brutal even for Captain Twinely.
“Shut your devil’s mouth,” he said to the sergeant, “isn’t what you’ve done enough for you? If the croppy that came on you at Donegore had broken your skull, instead of just cracking it, he would have rid the country of the biggest blackguard in it.”
“Thon’s fine talk,” growled the sergeant, “but who bid us strip the wench? Is bloody Twinely turning chicken-hearted at the last?”
Captain Twinely did not choose to hear the sergeant’s words, or the grumbling of the men around him. He put his troop in motion, and trotted off towards Antrim. Neal, running and stumbling, dazed, utterly weary and dejected, was dragged with them.
General Clavering sat at dinner in a private room of the Massereene Arms. He had with him Colonel Durham and several of the officers who had commanded troops during the battle. The landlord, obsequious and frightened, waited on the party himself. He had the best food he could get on the table, and the best wine from the cellar was ready for his guests. In the public room a larger party was gathered—yeomanry officers, captains, and lieutenants of the royal troops, and a few of the country squires who had ridden into the town after the fighting was over. Lord Dunseveric and Maurice were in the room where they had slept the night before. Lord O’Neill lay on one of two beds. Life was in him still, but he was mortally wounded. Lord Dunseveric sat beside him, holding his hand, and speaking to him occasionally. Maurice was at the window. The laughter of the party in the room below reached them, and the noisy talk of the troops who thronged the streets. Jests, curses, snatches of song, and calls for wine mingled with the groans which his extreme pain wrung from the wounded man and the solemn, quiet words about strength and courage which Lord Dunseveric spoke.
A party of horsemen clattered up the street, and halted at the inn door. They had a prisoner with them—a wretched-looking man, with torn clothes, a bruised, bloody face, and hair matted with sweat and grime. But Maurice recognised him. It was Neal Ward. He turned to his father.
“A company of yeomen has just marched in and they have Neal Ward with them. Their officer, I think it was that blackguard Twinely, has asked for General Clavering, and entered the inn.”
“Very well, Maurice.” Lord Dunseveric turned to the wounded man. “I must leave you for a few minutes, my friend; keep quiet and be brave. I shall be back again. Maurice will stay with you, and get you anything you want.”
“Where are you going, Eustace?”