At this moment another horseman suddenly appeared on the scene, galloping up from behind the house. Wheeling his horse in some surprise, Harry found himself face to face with Madame de Vaudrey's neighbour, Monsieur de Polignac. He looked greatly perturbed; his mouth was twitching; the air of cynical detachment he had worn in Madame de Vaudrey's drawing-room had quite disappeared.
"Monsieur, what is this, what is this?" he cried.
"As you see, Monsieur—a skirmish," replied Harry. "We have captured a raiding-party—and doubtless saved your house from the flames."
"But—but—do you not see your peril? You are not a soldier; these men are not soldiers, the most of them; to wage war is for you quite irregular; if caught by the French—and I hear, Monsieur, rumours of a general advance in this direction—you will all be hanged."
"I will take my chance of that," said Harry. "I thank you, nevertheless, for your warning, Monsieur."
"Bah! I counsel you to release your prisoners—without arms, it is understood—and send them back to their lines."
"That is a matter for General van Santen, Monsieur. Would you care to repeat your advice to him?"
Polignac gave him a savage look, opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and, setting spurs to his horse, galloped away.
The scene of this tempestuous little fight differed greatly from its appearance a short half-hour before. Thirty men, of whom twenty-four were French, lay killed or wounded, with a few horses. The stone balustrades were broken in several places; the flower-beds were trampled; the gravel was ploughed up; shattered muskets, swords, scabbards, pistols, hats, cloaks, strewed the ground.
"Carry the dead to the garden," said Harry. "Take the wounded to the outbuildings and attend to them; there is a doctor in the house. A dozen of you take arms from the pile there and guard the prisoners; lock them up in the stables. Sherebiah, I leave you in charge."