"She came to me in the street the very last night before we left----"
Seth gave out something mixed up of groan and curse.
"She said she had heard we were going in the morning, and she wanted to say good-bye."
"Th' poor little wench! . . . What did you say to her Mester Jim?"
"I was knocked all of a heap at meeting her like that, Seth. But when I got my wits back I did the only thing I could. I took her to a lady friend who had been very kind to me, and she promised to look after her. And I am quite sure she will. If Kattie only stops with her I think she may be very comfortable there."
"It were good o' yo'. . . ." And then, reverting to Jim's former question, "I know him," he said hoarsely, "an' when th' chance comes----" And the big brown hands clenched as though a man's throat were between them. And Jim thought he would not like to be that man.
"I'm afraid I feel like that too, Seth, though I suppose--I don't know. Poor little Kattie!"
And presently he wrung the big brown hands, that were meant for better work than wringing evil throats, and swung up on to his horse.
"I must get along, Seth. But I'm often through here, and we'll be meeting again. We're about two miles out over yonder, you know. Good-bye!" And he galloped off to his quarters.
He frequently rode across of a night for a chat with Jack, but Jack was a mighty busy man these days, and nights too. He had an inordinate craving for trenches and gabions and facines and parallels and approaches, and could talk of little else, and confessed that he dreamed of them too. And if he could have accomplished as much by day as he did by night, when he was fast asleep--though as a matter of fact it ought to be the other way, for most of the actual work had to be done under cover of darkness and he slept when he could--Sebastopol would have been taken in a week.