“Beg pardon, sir!” She lifted her hand to her riding hat. “It’s an awfully poor little stream. The foot soldiers could walk across.”
“There’s a courier now, just riding down to the water.”
Merriam pointed across the river. A horseman appeared there suddenly, glancing up and down the little valley. He had left the town road and followed a faint fisherman’s trail to the water.
“He’d be an easy mark for a sharp-shooter,” Merriam remarked.
“Too easy. There wouldn’t be anything very splendid in murdering a man that way. You have to slay them in bunches to make it glorious. He’s probably a farmer looking for his cows.”
“Wrong again. He’s in proper riding clothes, I should say.”
“He’s going to spoil them, I should say!”
The horseman had forced his reluctant mount to the water’s edge.
“He’s actually going to cross!”
Merriam looked down with a professional eye. The horse was acting badly, and the rider was urging it with voice and spur. In a moment the splashing of the water could be heard plainly by the spectators. The stream was of uneven depth, and the horse lost its footing for a few yards but swam boldly on.