“For that we shall see,” was the answer. “They have succeeded, not without difficulty, in putting my colonel to bed, and his condition is such that he will be hard to awake. I, Victor de Laprade, will now proceed to arrange matters for him. Are you able to stand?”
Gervase caught a glimpse of his meaning and again a wild hope arose in his heart. But reflecting for a moment, he felt that he could not take advantage of the gallant Frenchman´s generosity, and he shook his head. “I cannot allow you,” he said, “to undergo further risk for me; I cannot do it; already you have far more than repaid any kindness I was able to render you.”
“Have no fear for me; I am able to answer any man who may dare to question me in what I do or leave undone. You do not know me, Mr. Orme. No man shall prevent my paying my debts of honour, whether they be debts of friendship or enmity. And shall I refuse to give him his life to whom I owe my own, when I have merely to turn the key in the door and say, ‘Friend, that is your road´? It is impossible.”
“But you do not recollect----”
“I recollect perfectly. Let us not enter into heroics, my friend, for this thing is simple and easy. Galmoy shall not know that to me you owe your escape; indeed it is probable that in the morning he will have forgotten you altogether, and remember only his headache. I have already provided you with a horse; your captain´s great beast is the best in the stable; and for a passport, this will have to serve your turn, though it will be best that you should avoid showing it too frequently. The name of De Laprade will not carry you far in this barbarous country. But, in faith, the signature might pass for that of His Majesty King Louis himself, or for that matter, of my Lord Galmoy. The handwriting is hardly as sober as I could wish--indeed, it is cursedly tipsy. When we next meet it may be at the sword´s point, in which case it were well to forget this interlude of Corydon and Strephon and try what yesterday we failed to finish. I have a pretty thrust in tierce that I should like to show you.”
“If we meet I hope it will never be as enemies,” said Gervase with warmth, “for I can never forget how much I owe you. I fear you undergo great risk in thus serving me.”
“Find yourself safe on shipboard or within the walls of Londonderry, and trouble not yourself about any danger that I may run. I can protect my reputation and my honour with my sword, and for this act if need be I shall answer to the king himself, though I fear he has not the nice sense of honour. I knew him in Whitehall; he is no king, but a priest in the purple, and a priest without piety. Your William is cold, but he is the better man. There is but one thing more. Should you again find your captain, tell him that I have not forgotten his promise, and that I look forward with eagerness to our next interview. I have crossed swords with Lauzun and Hamilton and will teach the clown to threaten a gentleman. That is finished, and now to horse.”
Raising Gervase from the ground, he supported him to the door, in the meantime wrapping his own cloak about his shoulders and warning him that the night air was bad for a green wound. Then he left him for a minute and returned almost immediately with Macpherson´s grey charger, already harnessed. The windows of the tavern were still aglow with light, and the sound of loud and uproarious laughter rang on the quiet night as he helped Gervase into the the saddle. There was little likelihood of pursuit, for it was clear that no precautions had been taken to guard the prisoners, and before Gervase was missed he would have put many a good mile between himself and his pursuers. The only fear was, that weak and exhausted as he was, it would be impossible for him to continue his journey for any length of time. Still, there was the sense of the removal of a great dread, and a feeling of joyous freedom that gave him new heart and strength. He gathered up the reins in his hands and at that moment the recollection of Hackett flashed upon his mind.
“It was selfish and cowardly of me to have forgotten,” he said. “Is it not also possible to save the sergeant? I feel that I am deserting a comrade and I should not like to leave him.”
“What can you do for him,” said De Laprade, “but make one more for the hangman? Your remaining will not save him; your going cannot harm him. I cannot do more than I have done, but I tell you to be of good courage regarding his safety, for I give you my word of honour that I will do what I can for the psalm-singing rogue. Be of good cheer. And now you will find a pistol in your holster which may be of some use. It may be we shall meet again. Farewell!”