Travelling up through the lovely rocky valley of the Meuse, bright-hung with rain-drops, Farquhar sat watch in hand counting the minutes; for their train was late, and there was a doubt whether it could catch the main-line connection at Namur, and if they failed in that they could not cross that night and must wait a whole day more ere hearing Dolly’s decree. Seven found them passing Yvoir, the sky bare of clouds, and the wide Meuse rosing herself in the sunset’s glow, which stained the very granite cliffs and dyed the green of young leaves madder-brown. Half-past seven: they were coming into Namur station, ten minutes late, and the Brussels express was due. Standing up, Farquhar held himself in readiness. Before the wheels were still he had sprung out, leaping with the train to balance his initial velocity, and was running along the platform towards the main line, for he knew his way. Lucian did not know his way, but he did not stay to ask it; he ran after Farquhar. There was a crowd, and two stout Belgians, excitedly discussing the wonderful rescue at Vresse, got right in his way: as he reached the platform the train began to move, and Lucian, who was too much exhausted to do more than just clutch at the foot-board, would certainly have been left had not somebody opened the door of a first-class carriage and hauled him in by the collar and tail of his coat. Lucian collapsed, utterly spent, his face as white as paper; the stranger ministered to his needs with half a glass of brandy, and assisted him to a seat. There Lucian lay with his eyes shut for several minutes before he found energy even to feel curiosity concerning his saviour. To a person of Lucian’s inquisitive temper, three minutes is an æon of time.
When his heart had moderated its suffocating pulsations and his eyes had ceased to swim, he made use of them, and discovered that his companion was a slight, fair-haired, good-looking young Englishman dressed in grey—who was watching him with a good deal of friendliness out of a pair of dark-grey eyes. Lucian smiled back and gave him a military salute, being still beyond speech.
“You were almost left behind,” said the stranger. Lucian nodded. “I hope I didn’t tear your coat.”
Lucian put up his hand and found a long rent, but he smiled on. “No, it’s all right, thanks. I’m no end obliged to you. I was dead set on catching this train; there’d have been Holy Moses to settle if I’d missed it.”
“I’m glad.”
“You crossing to-night?”
“Yes, I’m going back,” said the stranger, taking a paper out of his bag. Lucian made a bet with himself as to what that paper would be, and transferred a sixpence from the right-hand pocket of his coat to the left when the Spectator came into view. The Engineer Journal followed. “Oho!” said Lucian to himself; “a soldier of the king, my friend, are you? That’s why you look so smart.” He went on aloud: “I’ve a kind of idea you saved my life, you know.”
“By pulling you in? Surely not.”
“No-o; not that way. By the kindly, felicitous, and opportunitatious administration of O. D. V.”
“You ought not to run if you have trouble with your heart,” said the stranger, unfolding the Spectator preparatory to beginning to read.