“Softly, good madam,” said Lawton; “for although Roanoke never falls before, he sometimes rises behind. He is far from being accustomed to a pair of heels beating upon his flanks like a drum major on a field day; a single touch of the spur will serve him for a fortnight, and it is by no means wise to be kicking in this manner, for he is a horse that but little likes to be outdone.”
“Let me down, I say,” screamed Katy; “I shall fall and be killed.
Besides, I have nothing to hold on with; my arms are full of valuables.”
“True,” returned the trooper, observing that he had brought bundle and all from the ground. “I perceive that you belong to the baggage guard; but my sword belt will encircle your little waist, as well as my own.”
Katy was too much pleased with this compliment to make any resistance, while he buckled her close to his own herculean frame, and, driving a spur into his charger, they flew from the lawn with a rapidity that defied further denial. After proceeding for some time, at a rate that a good deal discomposed the spinster, they overtook the cart of the washerwoman driving slowly over the stones, with a proper consideration for the wounds of Captain Singleton. The occurrences of that eventful night had produced an excitement in the young soldier, that was followed by the ordinary lassitude of reaction and he lay carefully enveloped in blankets, and supported by his man, but little able to converse, though deeply brooding over the past. The dialogue between Lawton and his companion ceased with the commencement of their motions, but a footpace being more favorable to speech, the trooper began anew:
“Then, you have been an inmate in the same house with Harvey Birch?”
“For more than nine years,” said Katy, drawing her breath, and rejoicing greatly that their speed was abated.
The deep tones of the trooper’s voice were no sooner conveyed to the ears of the washerwoman, than, turning her head, where she sat directing the movements of the mare, she put into the discourse at the first pause.
“Belike, then, good woman, ye’re knowing whether or no he’s akin to Beelzeboob,” said Betty. “It’s Sargeant Hollister who’s saying the same, and no fool is the sargeant, anyway.”
“It’s a scandalous disparagement” cried Katy, vehemently, “no kinder soul than Harvey carries a pack; and for a gownd or a tidy apron, he will never take a king’s farthing from a friend. Beelzebub, indeed! For what would he read the Bible, if he had dealings with the evil spirit?”
“He’s an honest divil, anyway; as I was saying before, the guinea was pure. But then the sargeant thinks him amiss, and it’s no want of l’arning that Mister Hollister has.”