It was an hour after dawn when they bade farewell to the farm-house and set out upon their journey, Gervase mounted upon Bayard, and Macpherson trudging sturdily upon foot. The latter had made his preparations for the journey with abundant care and forethought. The night before he had baked the little meal that remained, and cooked a portion of the meat, of which there was still a considerable quantity left, all of which he stored carefully in the saddle-bags. He then turned his attention to Gervase, and with very little trouble succeeded in transforming him into a formidable-looking desperado, whose attire owed nothing to the art of the tailor, but hung together merely by fortuitous circumstances. Macpherson had, with studied humour, turned the embroidered coat inside out and rolled it in the mud that lay round the well in the farmyard, and then considerately removed one of the skirts with the edge of his sword. His beaver was divested of all form and shape; and a rope of straw rolled round the jackboots, which Gervase had refused to part with on any terms, completed his nondescript costume. He was now a reasonable representative of any of those lawless marauders who were swarming upon the roads, or hanging upon the skirts of the Irish army, in the expectation of plunder.
Macpherson had refused to make any change in his own costume. His rôle was that of a French soldier on his way to Londonderry--in such a character De Laprade´s passport would lend verisimilitude to his story, if there were any learned enough to read it, about which he had his misgiving. Gervase was to act apparently as his guide, and in such character the old soldier did not doubt but that with ordinary discretion, they might smuggle themselves though the Irish lines if the investment had been completed. If they failed, there was some chance that the stab of a pike or the end of a rope would put a stop to their further adventures in this world.
Notwithstanding, Gervase was in high spirits at starting. He was now completely recovered from his wound, and the eight days´ confinement had made the anticipation of action and enterprise doubly welcome. He revelled in the fresh spring wind that blew softly across the bog and heathy mountain side, and could with difficulty restrain his horse to keep pace with Macpherson, who trudged at his side with a long swinging stride.
The hedges were green with verdure, and the sunshine touched with a warmer colour the bog myrtle and flowering blackthorn in which the birds were busy building. It was hard to realize that dangers were spread round them on every side, and that the entire country was up in arms in a quarrel that could have no end, till one of the combatants went down utterly. Even Macpherson, whose feelings were not easily moved, was affected by the brightness of the morning and the beauty of the scene. His emotions took their own method of expression. For a time he had been entirely silent, or replied only in monosyllables, as if engrossed in his own secret meditations, when suddenly he began to sing in loud resonant tones:
“The Lord doth reign and clothed is He
With majesty most bright.”
When he had finished he threw up his beaver with an air of jubilant exultation.
“There, young sir, is a song for you to sing when you are merry; that eases the oppressed heart, and runs along the nerves and sinews, strengthening them to acts of endurance and valour. Were I a maker of songs these were the verses I should write--great words wherewith to hammer out a weapon.”
“I cannot help thinking,” said Gervase, “of the song poor Ralston was singing as we passed this way, hardly a fortnight ago. We little thought then that you and I should return alone.”
“They did their duty,” Macpherson answered, “and died in doing it; brave men want no more. I hope I shall not flinch when my time comes, as come it will, and that shortly. I have gotten the message and it doth not sadden me.”