These courtesies were quickly interrupted by Vytal, who spoke a word or two in low tones to Prat. Immediately that worthy was transformed. His hand came forward from the flute to his sword-hilt. The merriment died out of his face, while a look almost stern and forbidding, yet, curiously enough, not at all incongruous, crossed his stubby features.
The Indians, one by one, withdrew to their canoes and vanished into the deepening darkness. The three soldiers and Gyll Croyden, turning their backs to the water, started homeward. But suddenly they heard a light, grating sound behind them on the shore, and a voice, calling to them in pure English, caused them to turn about again with extreme surprise.
A man, wearing a rusty steel corselet and bonnet, a sword, and shabby leathern breeches, was dragging a canoe onto the beach. Having drawn the prow with an evident effort to security among the weeds and tall grasses that lined the glade, he came staggering forward to the amazed on-lookers, and crying aloud, “At last! at last!” fell apparently lifeless at their feet.
Quickly, with a woman’s eternal instinct, Gyll Croyden ran to the water, took off her neckerchief, wetted it, and returned to the prone figure with ready aid. Drawing off his heavy headgear, she then bathed the man’s temples, and bidding Prat bring the helmet to her, filled with water, presently dashed the cooling liquid in her patient’s face. “Poor boy!” she exclaimed, for the face, despite its full beard and long mustache, was very young.
Perhaps half an hour elapsed before signs of returning consciousness rewarded her efforts. Then, slowly, a pair of blue eyes opened and looked into hers, after which, painfully, the forlorn soldier stood upon his feet.
A volley of questions rose to the lips of Gyll and Roger; but Vytal, who had stood watching the mysterious stranger in silence, disappointed their curiosity.
“It grows dark,” he said, addressing the youth. “An you, sir, can walk, we had best hasten to the town.”
The other, seeming to have regained his strength with surprising suddenness, declared, “If it be not too far, I can accompany you with little aid.”
“The darkness matters not,” averred Prat. “See, I have brought a lanthorn.” And, so saying, he lighted the sheltered candle with flint and steel. Handing the lanthorn to Gyll, who, like a will-o’-the-wisp, led the way into the forest, he then lent assistance to Rouse in supporting the stranger. For several minutes they followed the trail without speaking; but soon their ragged charge broke the silence. He spoke as though to himself, in a voice suggestive of vague reminiscence. Presently his words became more audible, the broken phrases more coherent. “A year,” he said—“a year in hell!” And then, in a clear, low tone, “There were fifteen men of us, just fifteen men, all damned save one.”
“My God!” ejaculated Rouse, halting suddenly; and Roger, coming likewise to a stand-still, stood surveying the youthful, bearded face, with mouth agape in mute amazement.