“I carry dispatches, and—and I’m nearly done,” he said.
There was no laughter now, for his weakness and his errand dwarfed all comedy. It was Rupert, remembering long years of hero-worship, who first saw through the dishevelment and mud that disguised this comer to the feast. He crossed to the messenger’s side, and poured out another measure for him.
“You’re Oliphant of Muirhouse,” he said, “and—you steadied me in the old days at Windyhough.”
Oliphant had the gift of remembering the few who were conspicuously leal, instead of the many whose weakness did not count in the strong game of life. “So you’ve found your way, as I promised you?” he said, with a sudden smile. “And it tastes sweet, Rupert? Gad! I remember my first taste of the Road.”
And then Oliphant, feeling his strength ebb, crossed to the Governor and laid his dispatches on the table. He explained, in the briefest way, that he had ridden across country from Northumberland, changing horses by the way, had found Carlisle invested, had been compelled, lacking the password, to run a sentry through and afterwards to swim the moat.
With the singular clearness that, in sickness or in health, goes with men who carry a single purpose, he gave one dispatch into the Governor’s hand. “That is for you, sir. This other must be carried forward to the Prince—must be carried instantly. Its contents may alter the movements of the whole army. The safety of his Highness is concerned.”
He paused a moment, daunted by a weakness extreme and pitiful. “I had hoped to carry the message on myself, after an hour’s sleep or two,” he went on; “but I’m as you see me—there are times when a man can do no more.”
The Governor was moved by Oliphant’s childlike, unquestioning devotion. The man stood there, drenched and muddied, after a ride that would have broken most folk’s wish to carry any message on. He had passed through besieging troops, and cooled his ardour in a moat whose waters were nipped by a northeast wind. And yet he seemed to ask forbearance, because he was not strong enough to ride out again at dawn on the Stuart’s business.
“Be easy, Mr. Oliphant,” said Hamilton. “I shall find you a hard-riding messenger.”
Oliphant’s mind was clear as ever for the detail that every man must watch whose heart is set on high adventure. He looked round the board, and the face that claimed his glance was Rupert’s. Sharp and clear, old scenes at Windyhough recurred to him—the pretty, pampered mother, the weakling heir who longed to prove himself, the memories of his own unhappy boyhood that Rupert had stirred at every meeting.