“It is not to be doubted, sir: the skirmish is over and your men are wholly broken.”
“Nay, Luttrel was a brave man; I am sorry for him, but the rest--let them go.”
The moment that the Vicomte de Laprade had gone down in Gervase´s grasp, the dragoons had broken and fled, followed hard by Macpherson and his troop. The pursuers were in no mood to give quarter that day. The atrocities of Galmoy some time before had filled their hearts with a thirst for vengeance; it was a sacred duty not to spare, but to slay, and slay without remorse or pity. Far down the road thundered the headlong flight, pursuers and pursued mingled together. De Laprade had seated himself on the fence by the roadside, and watched without apparent interest the incidents of the pursuit. It was impossible to tell from his face what his real feelings might have been.
"C´est fini," he said lightly, as the troopers halted and turned to retrace their footsteps to where the conflict had commenced.
Macpherson came up, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
“I saw you go down,” he said to Gervase, “and feared it was all over with you. I should have been sorry to my dying day, for you have shown the right soldier spirit,--you have been touched?”
“A mere scratch, but we have gained a great success.”
“A pretty affair. What popinjay have we yonder?” and he pointed to De Laprade.
“One of King James´s new French gentlemen,” said Gervase smiling, “who is the first captive of my bow and spear.”
“One of the accursed race,” said Macpherson grimly. “And the message hath come to me; ‘no quarter,´ was our word this day. His blood be upon his own head.” He drew his pistol from the holster, and dismounted from his horse. Gervase saw the deep gloom gather on his brow.