When this short and confused conflict between the pikemen and the royal horse was over, and there came a breathing time, and a pause in the fighting at that spot, Cuthbert, who marked where his last opponent fell, left his ranks, and hastened (it was not many yards away) to his succour. The young man, bareheaded and pale, lay upon the ground: his bright hair was dabbled with blood—not his own, but that of other combatants who had been slain near him: a pistol shot had reached his gallant heart; the courageous and gentle spirit had fled.
“Nothing can be done for him,” said Randal, for whom Cuthbert had called,—“come away.”
“Surely, surely there can,” answered Cuthbert, in an agony, strange and unaccountable even to himself.
“Nothing, I tell you: he is dead.”
“Well, then, I will take care of the body, and bury it.”
“Let the dead bury the dead,” said Randal.
“The battle is not over yet. Hark! there is the drum beating to fall in.”
Cuthbert heard it, and the loud voice of Maxwell, and saw the men rushing to their arms. He hurried to his post; and there, as he stood, saw stragglers coming in, who stopped and stooped upon the very spot where the body of the youth lay, as if to rifle it. His regiment was at the same moment faced to the left, and moved a quarter of a mile off to new ground. Here they halted and stood at ease.
Now came rumours how that great and good men had fallen on the King’s side; that the gallant Caernarvon had been slain by the sword, and that a bullet had taken the life of the noble Falkland.
The trumpets did seem to wail them, they sounded so desolate and mournful as the shades of evening came on. As soon as he could get away, Cuthbert again hurried to the place where the corpse of his own particular victim lay. He got a torch, and searched the body, if haply he might find a name: in the bosom next the heart there lay the miniature of a girl of calm pure beauty; from the features and the costume, it seemed that of an Italian. Cuthbert sighed, and continued his search for some paper that might give a name. At last, in the breast pocket of the doublet beneath his buff coat, he found a letter:—the address was “Martin Noble,”—the handwriting was that of his own father.