Lochinvar: A Novel

by S. R. Crockett

Under the shelter of a great dune they laid her, digging the grave as deep as they could, using the same tools with which they had intrenched the citadel she had helped them so well to defend. They laid her on the landward side, under a huge cliff of sand, so that as the winds blew and the sand wave advanced, it might bury her deeper and ever deeper till the trumpet of the archangel should blow reveille upon the morn of final judgment.

"And then," said Scarlett, with conviction, "I had liefer take my chance with Marie, the sinner, than with Barra or Kersland, those precious and well-considered saints."

Wat Gordon said not a word. But he stood a longer space than for his own safety he ought, leaning upon the long handle of his spade and looking at the fresh, moist sand which alone marked the grave of the Little Marie in the waste.

The defeat which had befallen the forces of Haxo was final enough, for among the rank and file there was not the least desire to pursue the conflict for its own sake. And, moreover, the death of so many of their companions was sufficient to intimidate the survivors. Yet Wat and Scarlett were by no means free from danger. For one thing, both Haxo and the fugitives from the party of their assailants were perfectly acquainted with their identity, and the fact of Wat's being an escaped prisoner of the State was quite enough to bring upon them more legitimate though not less dangerous enemies.

By following circuitous and secluded paths, Wat and Scarlett found their way to a wooden shed on the verges of the cultivated land. The lower floors were evidently used in the winter for cattle, but the upper parts were still half full of hay, long and coarse, cut from the polders which lay at the back of the dunes.

Here among the rough, fragrant, pleasant hay the two men lay down, and Wat fell instantly asleep—the training of his old days in the heather returning to him, and in combination with the fatigues and anxieties of the night and morning, causing him to forget the manifold dangers of his position. Scarlett, having apparently left sleep behind him with his drowsy regiment, occupied himself dourly in making up the account of the pays still due to him by the paymaster of his corps, shaking his head and grumbling as each item was added to the formidable column, not a solitary stiver of which he could ever hope to receive.

It was again growing dusk when Wat awoke, much refreshed by his sleep. He found Scarlett leaning on his elbow and watching him with grim amusement.

"I suppose," he said, "once I was a fool and fathoms deep in love as well as you. But I do not believe that ever I slept in this fashion—saying over and over, 'Kate, dear Kate,' all the time, in a voice like a calf bleating for a milk-pail on the other side of the gate."

Wat turned his head and pretended not to hear. He was in no mood to barter windy compliments with Jack Scarlett, who on his part loved nothing better, save only wine and a pretty woman. The grave of the girl who had died for love of him was too new under the dunes of Lis; the fate of his own true-love too dark and uncertain.

So soon, therefore, as it grew dusk enough, Wat and Scarlett betook themselves without further speech down to the little harbor, to see what might be obtained there in the way of a boat to convey them out of Holland. At first they had some thought of getting a fisherman to land them at Hamburg, whence it would be easy enough to take passage either to England or to Scotland, as they might decide.