“Why, Jack, is’t thee, my man?” said the farmer. “Bless me if I knew thee. Thou art just like a ghost.”
“And I had nearly been turned into one, farmer,” answered the man. “For I got a blow on my head in the fight just a week gone by to-day, which stretched me senseless; and other hurts about my body, have knocked out of me all the fighting for some months to come. ’Twas an evil day for Longdendale, and I trow that thy own home will be turned into a house of mourning by it. For this was how we fared. Even as the victory seemed assured, the Royalist rascals made a great rush, and by ill-luck our leader was shot dead, and other officers falling, we were beaten off. As for the Captain—well, I think he loved that lass of thine—King’s man though thou art,—for in his breast, when we came to carry his body off, were certain keepsakes which I have seen thy daughter wear. There was also a letter addressed to her, and I have it with me here. Thou wilt tell her that he died as a brave man should die, and that he was worthy of her love to the last. I must ride on now, for it grows late, and I have ill-news to carry to other Longdendale women besides thy wench. This is the worst side of war.”
ARMS OF THE DUKINFIELD FAMILY.
“One moment,” said the farmer, placing his hand on the bridle of the other’s horse, “When did this happen?”
“A week ago to-day,” replied the Roundhead. “Just as the sun set; and it was too late to renew the attack that day.”
With that the man rode on, and the farmer was left alone.
“The good wife is right after all,” he said to himself. “’Twas second sight, and the lass has the gift. We must keep the matter to ourselves, or the folk will think she is a witch.”
Then he set his face homewards, and walked off wondering.
Author’s Note.