Harry stood for a moment; all his blood seemed to run cold. Then, his whole body a-tingle, he stepped forward.
"Pardon me, sir, the matter is most urgent; 'tis a case of life or death. If you would be so good as to lay the letter at once before my lord——"
Mr. Cardonnel turned and stared with a sort of scornful wonder at the dishevelled, bedraggled object who addressed him in an English and a cultivated accent.
"'Tis too late. My lord's despatch left last night; the man will be shot in a few hours; the matter must e'en take its course."
"Sir, may I beg of you——" Harry's voice, unknown to himself, was raised to a tone of passionate entreaty. "My lord——"
"What is it, Mr. Cardonnel?" asked Marlborough.
"General van Santen, my lord, asks the pardon of the deserter Minshull, sentenced by court-martial to be shot. 'Tis too late."
"Write and tell the general so, and be done with it."
"My lord," broke in Harry, "do but read the general's letter. I have rid and run all night to deliver it; the execution will not yet have taken place, and I know well——"
"Who are you, sir?"