Before us stood a tall and handsome dark-bearded man, in a semi-clerical garb, which, however, was sadly soiled with mud and blood, and very much torn in several places. The man was in the prime of life, but the paleness of his face contrasted strangely with the depth of colour in his beard. No wonder he looked wan and weary, for his left arm was in a sling, and there was a wound across one temple, which seemed to have been received but recently.
“Man!” said Jock, rising from his seat, “you’ve got a sad cloot (knock) there. I hope you felled the chiel that dang you.”
“He isn’t alive to-day,” said the stranger, smiling sadly.
“I have just come from Akwaz,” he continued. “Mine has been a remarkable escape. I am safe now, however, and would seek the assistance of your General Outram. I am told he is both brave and gallant.”
“Well, sir,” said Jock, “I can answer for it, he is baith. Just let him in front of the foe, and a braver man never swung a claymore, so early in the morning; but place him alongside laddies and bairnies, and he is the kindest, mildest lad that ever lived.”
“I am glad to hear so good a character of your great General, but an English lady is in great distress at Bagdad. I thought it possible he might help me. With one hundred men, if they could but be spared, I would take in hand to secure her release.”
“Pussy, pussy,” cried Jock, in some alarm, for I had been wistfully gazing at the new arrival since he began to speak, and now sprang lightly from the soldier’s shoulder on to his, and began to sing, and rub my head against his ear.
“Can it be possible?” cried the stranger, taking me down and looking at my mouth. “Ruby and all,” he added, as if speaking to himself.
You see, Warlock, that I had known the stranger at a glance. He was the good, kind priest who had nursed my master back to health, when wounded by the bandits in the wild forest.
“Soldier,” he said excitedly, “this is Shireen.”