The time, too, was unfavourable. We must be on the march by sunrise—so ran our orders—and already the day was breaking. I cared not much for this: I could easily have overtaken my troop; but it was a delicate matter—that could only be excused by a certain knowledge of danger—to awake a gentleman’s family at such an hour, even for the purpose of warning them. Moreover, should my advice prove fruitless, I reflected that my visit—which could not be made in secret—might aid in bringing about the very danger I apprehended. A circumstance so extraordinary could not fail to be noticed by all.
It was thus that I was held in irresolution, while my troop was forming for the march.
At the last moment, thanks to the thoughtful Holingsworth, a compromise offered. He suggested that I should send my advice in writing. In that I could be as explicit as I pleased, and bring before my protegés all the arguments I might be able to adduce—perhaps more successfully than if urged by a personal appeal.
My comrade’s suggestion was adopted; and in haste, but with a fervour resulting from my fears, I penned the admonitory epistle.
A trusty messenger was found in one of the Ayankieados; who promised, as soon as the family should be stirring, to carry the letter to its destination.
With my heart somewhat relieved of its load, though still far from light, I gave the order to march.
The bugle rang clear and loud, and its cheerful notes, as I sprang into the saddle, combined with the inspiration borrowed from my buoyant steed, produced a soothing effect upon my spirits.