“What do I want with this?” said I, giving back the paper. “Give it to those who want it. I’ve had enough of the Dutch for one night.”
And saddling my horse I started, in what sort of humour my readers may imagine, towards Derry.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Two old acquaintances.
Save to turn my back on a region which had now become full of gloomy associations, I had no very definite purpose in view in that morning’s ride. There was nothing to be done. The mischief to her I loved was beyond recall. Even those who had made themselves the agents of this vile conspiracy had placed themselves out of reach. Tim, my own brother, was nominal chief to the hated band, and though he was absent, and would, I knew, have had no hand in this business, to denounce the whole company would be only to strike at him. From Maurice Gorman, coward and time-server, there was nothing to be hoped. Not a friend was there on whom I could count, not an enemy on whom I could have the sorry satisfaction of being revenged.
As, however, the gallop through the bracing morning air produced its natural effect, it occurred to me to offer my services, during the remainder of my leave of absence, to Captain Swift, or, should he desire it, join the Diana forthwith, and try to forget my trouble in hard work.
His honour’s passport took me safely past the numerous patrols which beset my way between Malin and Derry, and which spoke much for the rigour with which the new régime of martial law was being enforced. Once or twice I was questioned as to the two ladies named in the pass, to which I replied that I was to foregather with them presently—which I devoutly wished might be true.
At Derry more than usual ceremony awaited a stranger at the gates. I was conducted to the guard-room, and there detained under a kind of friendly arrest for half-an-hour or so, until it suited the pleasure of the officer on guard to inspect me.