“My mate there’s got his shoulder ploughed, too, by a bullet.”
“Open the gates, Jenks,” cried Roy.
“One moment, sir,” whispered Ben. “Get the despatches and see if they’re in your father’s writing.”
“Right,” whispered back Roy. “Here!—your despatches.”
“No, sir,” said the man, firmly. “That’s what they asked who barred the way. Sir Granby’s orders were to place ’em in his lady’s hands.”
“Quite right,” said Roy. “But show them to me and let me see my father’s hand and seal.”
“Yes, that’s right enough, sir,” said the man. “We might be enemies;” and he unstrapped a wallet slung from his right shoulder, took out a great letter tied with silk and sealed, and held it out, first on one side, then upon the other, for the boy to see.
“Yes,” cried Roy, eagerly, “that’s my father’s writing, and it is his seal. Open the gate, Jenkin, and let them in. Why, my lads, you look worn-out.”
“Not quite, sir; but we’ve had a rough time of it. The country’s full of crop-ears, and we’ve had our work cut out to get here safe.”
“Full of what?” said Roy, staring, as the troopers led in their horses, and he walked beside the man who bore the despatches.