“Happened next—” repeated the sheriff mechanically, with astonishment written on every feature of his face.
“No, you were insensible,” continued Ralph. “At that luckless moment the drum beat to arms in a regiment of foot behind us. The horse knew the call and answered it. Wheeling about, it carried you into the heart of our own camp. There you were known, tried as a deserter, and imprisoned. Perhaps it was natural that you should set down your ill fortune to me.”
The sheriff's eyes were riveted on Ralph's face, and for a time he seemed incapable of speech.
“Is this truth?” he asked at length.
“God's truth,” Ralph answered.
“The kerchief—what color was it?”
“Yellow.”
“Any name or mark on it? I have it to this day.”
“None—wait; there was a rose pricked out in worsted on one corner.”
The sheriff got up, with lips compressed and wide eyes. He made for the door, and pulled at it with wasted violence. It was opened from the other side by the under gaoler, and the sheriff rushed out.