By this time he was standing, with eyes bandaged, against the wall. He ceased to speak; the last stroke of eight had already sounded from several steeples; but the clock of the Hervormde Kerk still wanted seven minutes of the hour. Fanshawe's eyes were riveted on the hands; the soldiers stood at ease, waiting.
Meanwhile, what of Harry?
The road through Turnhout to Breda passes through a wide moorland region and crosses the river Merk. It was a somewhat heavy road at the best, and the recent passage of troops and baggage wagons had made it rutty and uneven. Harry had started at a stiff gallop; his horse was fresh, and seemed to catch the infection of his eagerness. On he went, scarcely varying his pace, his head low, his ears bent back for his rider's encouraging words. At that hour the road was free; Harry met with no obstruction. He dashed through Turnhout, crossed the river to Hoogstraaten, and there found his own black charger awaiting him. He was not quite half-way to Breda.
"Orange, my beauty, you must go as you never went before," he cried, as he set the animal at a gallop. The horse pricked his ears in response. He galloped on for mile after mile, scattering dust around him, getting many a stare of wonderment from the peasants at work in the fields. As the miles slipped by, Harry anxiously watched his gallant steed. Great flakes of foam fell from the animal's quivering lips; his nostrils were distended wide; his white eye-sockets were rimmed with red; and still he galloped, panting, striving nobly to respond to the caressing pats and cheering words of his master.
"Twenty minutes more, old fellow!" whispered Harry in the beast's ear. "Twenty minutes; if you can only hold out!"
He was nearing the end of his ride, but the poor horse was in distress. Spots of blood crimsoned the white foam; Harry fancied that he saw despair in the animal's starting eyes; and when, still a mile on the wrong side of Ginneken, he heard the little church clock strike eight, his heart sank within him. He dared not press the horse further; he might urge it to a short spurt, but the effort would probably be its last; and he had still three miles to go!
"Well done, Orange, my beauty!" he cried, patting its ear. "Good horse! Near home now; a few minutes more, old fellow, and then——"
Thus he rode on, inspiriting words on his lips, black despair at his elbow. He knew what military punctuality meant; his ears were strained to catch the sharp rattle of musketry. How far could a volley be heard? He could not pause to speculate on the question; all he could hear was the ringing of his flagging steed's hoofs.
He was a mile from Breda. He saw the whole of the little town before him, smoke rising from the chimneys; he overtook a few carts slowly wending towards the market, and heard the wondering exclamations of the wagoners as his blood-flecked steed flashed by. His eyes were straining towards the church tower; pray God the Ginneken clock was fast! But he was too far away to see the hands. On he rode; he came to the open gate; the sentry challenged him, but he was gone before the man had finished the phrase. Now he dug his spurs into the horse's heaving flanks for a last spurt; he clattered through the ill-paved street, shouting to the pedestrians to make way; into the busy little market-place, cumbered with the stalls of apple-women, poulterers, and other purveyors. Boys scurried like rabbits out of his path; women raised shrill cries as stalls were thrown down and apples rolled wide; dogs barked and girls shrieked; but he was past; the church clock said one minute to eight! Out of the market-square, round the corner,—and there was Tettefall, hastening to meet him.
"To the park!" cried the lieutenant.