“God bless you!” whispered Frank, in a choking voice.
“Oh, don’t say anything, my boy. Only give me your word, not as a soldier, but as a soldier’s son, that you will do nothing to help either of the prisoners to escape.”
“Yes, I give you my word,” said Frank quickly. He would have given anything to be near his father and speak to him for a few minutes.
“That will do.—Murray, we shall go on at a sharp trot; but you are both well mounted, I see.” Then he said in an undertone: “I don’t believe they will venture anything when they see how strong we are. If the rascals do, I shall make a dash, standing at nothing; but at the first threatenings get the boy away. My instructions are that the prisoners are not to escape—alive!”
“I understand,” said Captain Murray; and he mounted his horse.
The next minute an order was given in a low tone; it was passed on, and the men sprang to their saddles. Then another order, “Draw swords!” There was a single note from a trumpet; and as Frank and Captain Murray sat ready, the officer in command led them himself, and placed one at each door of the first carriage, a dragoon easing off to right and left to make place for them.
Frank’s hand was on the glass directly, and the window was let down.
“Father!” he cried in a low, deep voice, which was nearly drowned by the trampling, crashing of wheels, and jingle of accoutrements, but heard within; and it was answered by a faint cry of astonishment, and the rattle of fetters, as two hands linked together appeared at the window.
“Frank, my dear boy! you here?”
The boy could not answer, but leaned over toward the carriage with his hand grasped between his father’s.