“Appearances are against me, I admit,” said Gervase, with a smile, and feeling, with perhaps excusable vanity, that he would have preferred to cut a gallanter figure. “Still, I hope that you will believe me when I say that I am a gentleman, and most desirous of serving you. I have carried the colours in Mountjoy´s regiment and----”
“And I think that I can trust you,” she said, holding out her hand, with a frank look in her eyes, and a sweet, sad smile upon her lips.
“In your service wholly,” said Gervase, bending low over her hand, which he pressed with unnecessary fervour. “My friend is an old soldier who has a grudge against your sex for some reason known to himself, but I have cause to know that a more loyal and faithful friend there never was. He will scoff and rail, I doubt not, but believe me, he will serve you with the last drop of blood in his heart. He hath great experience in matters of danger, and I doubt not some scheme may be devised whereby we may convey you to Londonderry in safety.”
“I care not for myself,” she answered; “it is for my grandfather that I fear. He seems to have lost his reason.”
The old man had carried the box to a distance, and had sat down before it, examining the contents eagerly, and talking to himself in a loud excited tone. From time to time he glanced round furtively to see if he was observed, and then went on with his examination. “Safe! safe!” he muttered. “That was the Spaniard´s gold, and you wear bravely, my beautiful doubloons. How you shine, my beauties, and I thought you were gone for ever! It would have broken my old heart--I could not have lived without you. And my stones of price----What want you, sir?” he said, closing the box, and turning round savagely as Macpherson approached.
“I know not what devil´s trinkets you have enclosed there,” said the soldier, “but I would have you act like a reasonable man, and tell me what you purpose doing. Yonder lady is young and unprotected, and we would not willingly leave you, but this is no time to give heed to such trash as you have shut up there, when your life is in danger every moment.”
“My life is here,” answered the old man, “and I pray you, for God´s sake, leave me in peace. I know you not.”
Macpherson turned on his heel and rejoined Gervase and the girl. “His mind is gone utterly,” he said, “and it is useless endeavouring to reason with him. My young friend, madam, has, I doubt not, told you how matters stand with us. If you will, we shall endeavour to carry you with us, and trust to the fortunes of war to bring you safely through. Another hour should bring us to the ford. I trust that you are able to ride, for the chaise is rendered useless, and were it not, we have not horses to draw it. In the meantime I had better secure your nag.”
Macpherson went after the stray horse which was now quietly grazing at some distance, and shortly returned with it. “And now,” he said, “I regret that we cannot give this brave fellow Christian burial, but if you, madam, will look after your grandfather, my young friend and I will even place him where he may sleep his last sleep decently, like a brave and honest man as I doubt not he was.”
The girl went over to the dead man, and kneeling down kissed his forehead, and then rising without a word, but with a great sob which she bravely strove to repress, went over to her grandfather. Macpherson and Gervase carried the body into the field, and placing it in the ditch, cut a quantity of bramble with which they reverently covered it.