Presently they came to the headquarters of the portion of the force domiciled in the city.
Wat, who for a time had been entirely sobered by the fierce excitement of battle, now again felt his head reel with the sudden, sharp chill of the night air.
Yet when the prisoners were confronted with the officer of the night, he at once stepped forward and, without hesitation, assumed the sole responsibility for the affair.
"I fear I have slain a man—or, mayhap, more than one," he said; "but these, my friends, have had no part in the quarrel. They but assisted me to fight my way out."
"Your name and regiment, sir?" said the officer in charge, civilly enough.
"I am Walter Gordon, captain in Douglas's regiment of Dragoons," replied Walter, readily enough.
"Let Captain Gordon be taken to the military prison and there kept in the safest cell," interrupted the clear, high voice of Barra. He had entered unobserved, having followed the patrol along the street. The officer of the night saluted the high councillor of the prince and present provost-marshal of the camp and city of Amersfort.
Walter was therefore promptly delivered to the officer and file who had been sent to escort him, and in a moment he went out with them into the night.
"Were they souljers or civilians ye murthered, for sure?" asked the officer, as they marched along the street. He spoke the pleasant tongue of Ireland in a soft, far-reaching whisper.
"Townsfolk," returned Wat; "all except one hulking scoundrel of a provost-marshal's man!"