Transcriber’s Note:

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s [note] at the end of this text for details.

THE CRIMSON SIGN

A Narrative of the Adventures of

Mr. Gervase Orme, Sometime

Lieutenant in Mountjoy´s

Regiment of Foot

BY

S. R. KEIGHTLEY

AUTHOR OF “THE CAVALIERS”

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

1898

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

THE CAVALIERS. A Novel. By S. R. Keightley. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50.

“The Cavaliers” is healthy in tone, spirited in treatment, and written in a manner calculated to attract lovers of historical adventure.... A capital book.--Academy, London.

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE CRIMSON SIGN.

CHAPTER I.
OF WHAT BEFELL ON THE ROAD TO ENNISKILLEN.

In the year of grace 1689 men were not a whit more long-suffering nor more patient than they are to-day. The choleric captain who had been pacing the guard-room for a quarter of an hour showed evident signs that he was fast losing what temper he possessed. As he marched with a hasty stride up and down the oaken floor, and wheeled with military abruptness on the broad stone that formed the hearth, the rafters of black oak rang with the clank of his sword and the jingling of the spurs on his heavy jack-boots. He pulled with a gesture of impatience at the grizzled white moustache that concealed his mouth, and muttered anathemas which, had they been heard in the pious city of Londonderry, would have been deemed little in keeping with his reputation. Nor did he seem a man with whom others would take unwarrantable liberties, or keep dangling upon their careless will and pleasure.

At first sight there was no mistaking him for anything but a soldier, and one who had seen lengthened service where hard blows had been struck and long marches had to be made. His lean face was brown and seamed with lines, each of which had in all likelihood its history; and a great scar, half concealed by his broad beaver, ran from the temple almost to his chin. His mouth was firm and resolute, giving its character to a face that did not seem apt either to lighten in humour or to soften in pity. He wore his own hair, which was nearly white, and, though he must have been close on sixty, his carriage was upright and soldierly, with a certain stiffness, probably learnt in early life from the drill-master.

The Town clock struck five. Halting suddenly in his walk he turned to the door, and his hand was on the latch when a young man entered hurriedly and stumbled against him. When they recovered themselves, they stood looking at one another inquiringly for a moment. Then the young fellow, who wore a military uniform, drew back a step and saluted gravely. “You are Captain Macpherson, I think?”

“I was Captain Macpherson, sir,” the other answered, “a moment since, but what I am now I hardly know till my wits come back. You have a strange way of forcing your company on your neighbours.”

“Such sudden acquaintanceship was wholly unexpected, I assure you, sir,” the young man answered, with a pleasant smile that lit up his handsome face. “I was directed to meet you here. My name is Orme.”

The old soldier, without speaking, retired into the embrasure of the window followed by the younger man, and then turned round sternly.

“Mr. Orme, you must know it hath struck five by the Town clock. A soldier´s first duty is discipline, and here have I, your commanding officer, for such I take myself to be, been awaiting your coming a full quarter of an hour. I have been in countries where the provost-marshal would have known how to deal with such offences. Cities have been sacked and great battles lost and won, by less delay than that.”

“I have left the Colonel but now, sir. He said nothing of the time, but told me that I should meet you here.”

“Very like, very like,” growled the other. “I know the breed of old. Feather-bed soldiers who need a warming-pan in camp. They take no heed of time. I was brought up in a different school, and would have you know that while you keep me company, you must learn my ways. How long have you served?” He asked the question abruptly, bending on his companion a keen and penetrating look that nothing seemed to escape.

“I have carried the colours for nearly two years in Mountjoy´s regiment.”

"And never seen man stricken in fair fight, I warrant; that is before you and will come speedily. Hath Colonel Lundy spoken of the work we are about to take in hand?"

“Only that I was to receive my instructions from you, and place myself under your orders.”

“That is well, at any rate. You are green and tender for the business, but you may show the right stuff when the time comes. Things are going crookedly here in Londonderry and elsewhere, Mr. Orme. We go neither back nor forward, but stand swaying like men who know not whether to turn to the right hand or to the left. We would fight but we dare not; we would flee but we cannot. And all the while there are stout fellows here who would handle a musket or trail a pike with the best troops in Europe, if there were a man to lead them. These cursed councils and divided plans breed nothing but failure. You will see Hamilton with his levies across the Bann and round the wall of Londonderry, before the month is out.”

“I humbly trust not, but if we do never fear but we shall give a good account of ourselves.”

The old soldier smiled dubiously. “There is plenty of talk and furbishing of weapons, but little of the strict drill and discipline that makes soldiers; I am but a plain man myself and I have spoken out plainly. The city is open as a village. There are ramparts to be strengthened, ravelines and fascines to be constructed, supplies to be furnished, and arms to be collected. We talk of standing a leaguer, as if these things would do themselves. But needs must when the Devil drives, and I know whither that carries. These councils have many tongues and no head. They put forth declarations and think all is done when they set their hands to paper with much spluttering of ink. I remember when Francesco de Mello and de Fuentes----But that is an old story and may be told again.”

“I doubt not,” said Orme, “you have ripe experience, but I would do my own work like a simple gentleman, and leave these things to those whose business they are.”

“Fairly rebuked. You are right, my lad, and I am an old fool to stand prating of what hath no concern for you. But ´tis an old trick of mine to find fault where I cannot mend. Natheless, the onfall at the castle of Carrickfergus and the break of Dromore give me cause to grumble, and Rawdon and Beresford and the rest of them might have taken a lesson from a plain soldier like myself, that they might have profited by. They think me only good enough to fetch and carry, spaniel-like--and you say that Colonel Lundy hath told you nothing?”

“Merely that I should place myself at your disposal; nothing else.”

“We ride pell-mell for Enniskillen; you and I and some dozen troopers, less or more, without drawing bridle or tarrying by the way. There is a precious cartel these Enniskilleners must digest forthwith, inviting them to leave the safety of their water-walls and, as I hear, good store of provender, to take their chance with us and fight it out behind these petty dykes and fences here. If they ask counsel of mine--but it is our business to see that it carries safely.”

“I had hoped,” said Orme, “that we might have seen some service; this doth not hold out much hope of that.”

“Hear how these young cockerels are given to crowing!” cried Macpherson; “I promise you this means no evening stroll upon the battlements, but a work of danger which may try your mettle. I mean not the gathering of the desperadoes who make war upon the defenceless, though these have stood to their half-pikes and other outlandish weapons ere now, but I am much mistaken if the royal troops be not on the roads and give us play enough. In this barbarous country we do not look for the courtesies of war, or even the interchange of prisoners; my Lord Galmoy and others, whom I hope to remember, have shown that a gentleman can play the hangman, and a soldier hath other trades than fighting. The journey is like to prove adventurous though it end in nothing. See that your horse be sure and fresh, and your pistols such that a man may place his life on them. I remember me when my life was placed in jeopardy once by a rotten girth. It was in Flanders in sixty-nine--but this gossip hath no interest for you. It were more to the purpose that I told you we set out at three in the morning with what secrecy we can observe, and that you meet me at the Bishop´s gate. Hackett, who is, I am told, a sergeant of your company, and knows the country, will bring our horses to the gate. You know the man; of what character is he?”

“As true and loyal as any in the city--the best man, I think, in the regiment.”

“And discreet? these good men are ofttimes inconsiderate.”

“He is no babbler, sir,” Orme answered, somewhat nettled by the tone of his companion, “though a pious man and God-fearing.”

“I, Ninian Macpherson, like him none the worse for that, young gentleman,” answered the other gravely.[gravely.] “Our religion hath placed you and me, I humbly trust, in arms this day, and sends us forth on this embassage to the no small peril of our lives. But the ways of grace are not always the ways of worldly prudence, and it behoves me who am answerable for our safety to act with diligence. Now, look you, Mr. Orme, I have watched you carefully, and I think you honest--dull it may be but honest, and I speak you plainly. I am suspicious of your colonel--I do not understand his ways. There is treason in the air, though who is free and who is touched I hardly know, but I who have lived among designing men for nigh on seven-and-fifty years think I know somewhat of honest work, and I was fearful this was but another trap.”

“I think, sir, Colonel Lundy is honest and devoted to Their Majesties.”

“I do not doubt you do, but we shall see. The citizens will give him a short shrift if they find him a rogue. But I had liked to see such zeal as befits one who commands a city, and would not be taken unprepared. When the regiments arrive from England they will find their entertainment of the poorest. If empty magazines and disordered companies are evidence of loyalty you might find a sign to hang up before every house in the city. But Ulster hath a proud heart and a stiff neck and will fight when she is pushed.”

“The Kingdom´s safety and the Protestant religion depend upon her stoutness; she will die hard.”

“It may come to that. Now, young gentleman, get you gone. He that would be early afoot should be early abed, and see that you get to rest betimes. Let there be no late revelling. We meet at three.”

Gervase Orme who had been lately an ensign in Mountjoy´s regiment of foot, had been quartered with his company in Londonderry, when his Colonel was appointed Governor of the City. Like other gentlemen of his faith he had not wavered in his allegiance or dreamed of taking up arms against the House of Stuart, till loyalty had become a crime and resistance an imperative duty. His own slender patrimony was in peril; his faith was threatened and in danger of being proscribed; his friends, whose safety and honour were his own, were placed at the mercy of their bitter and hereditary foes. Civil war was imminent and he could not hesitate as to the course he should adopt. James had broken faith with his people; the native Celtic population, steadfast in this, while they were wayward and fickle in all else, were determined to drive the English garrison into the sea, and the instincts of religion and of race intensified their hatred of the dominant caste.

When Colonel Lundy took the oath of allegiance to William and Mary, Gervase Orme willingly followed the example of his Colonel, and embarked with enthusiasm on the impending struggle. To him it was the one course left open, and he felt, like the other simple gentlemen of his time, that when he drew his sword it was for fatherland, for faith, and even for life itself. Nor did he very much doubt the result. The descendent of a Saxon colonist he looked down on the men of Munster and of Connaught as a race fit only for hewing wood and drawing water, for Fontenoy and other stricken fields had yet to be fought in which the Irish proved their splendid qualities as fighting men. And he had the Saxon´s profound faith in himself and his people.

Therefore it was when Colonel Lundy had directed him to place himself under Macpherson´s orders, with some prospect of service, he had obeyed with alacrity, hopeful that their destination might be one of those towns upon the Bann where the Protestant forces were awaiting the coming of the Irish army which was rapidly advancing north. In this he had been disappointed, but he was glad to forsake for a time the comparative inactivity of garrison life, and almost hoped that Macpherson´s anticipation of danger might be realized.

The night was raw and cold when he arose unwillingly from his bed, and his preparations being complete overnight, hurriedly dressed and endeavoured to partake of the meal his careful landlady had provided the evening before. When he reached the gate Macpherson was already there before him. The old soldier, wrapped in a long military cloak, was standing with his back to the wall, reading from a small volume in a loud monotonous tone, and the men were drawn in a circle round him, holding their horses by the bridle. One of the troopers held a lantern for the reader, who closed the book as Orme came up, and thrust it into his breast.

“You are close on your time, Mr. Orme. We have just been having our stirrup-cup from the Word, that, mayhap, will put us in heart for our cold ride. ´Tis an excellent morning dram. The sergeant hath seen to the arms and tells me they will serve.”

“Both arms and men, sir,” said Hackett, in a low tone, “I will answer for them with my life.”

“´Tis well. Now open the gate and get to horse, for we must put many a mile between us and the city before daybreak. A mile at the start is worth two at the end.”

Macpherson leapt with surprising activity on the grey charger that Hackett had brought down to the gate, and the little troop sat patiently on their horses waiting till the drawbridge had been lowered and the great gate swung open. With a solemn “God speed” from the men on duty, they rode silently out into the darkness, Hackett leading at a round trot over the rough and broken road.

For three hours they pursued their way in a silence broken only by an occasional word of command, or by a cry of warning from one of the troopers who had stumbled over some obstacle, or had floundered deep in the bog by the road side. They were all rejoiced to see the first grey streak of light that gave promise of the coming day.

The morning had broken red through the mists that lay thick along the valley as they gained the top of the hill up which they had been climbing. The road was already visible, winding through a deep gorge, and skirted by great masses of rock, green with ferns and bramble. Here and there scattered through the uplands lay a farm steading, surrounded by its stretch of tilth and orchard close. But no sound of morning labour could be heard. The fields were lying waste and untilled, and the homesteads stood deserted. The clank of the horses hoofs made a melancholy music in the silence. The life and movement of the little troop brought into still greater relief the desolation round them.

Macpherson halted on the top of the hill, and dismounting loosened his horse´s girths. Then he removed the saddle and taking off his gloves, began to rub down the charger.

“That is my prince of steeds,” he said, contemplating his task and caressing the glossy neck with pride and affection; “nearly four hours´ hard riding and never turning a hair! An old soldier, my young friend,” he continued, turning to Gervase, “learns a good many things on his rough journey through the world. He learns to weigh a prince´s promises and favours, the strength of friendship and the worth of love. And he finds they are all vanity, even the vanity of vanities, as the Hebrew hath it. But he grows to love his horse. Together they have faced the scathe of the battle, and the privations of the march. Often and often this sleek skin hath been my pillow, and but for him these useless bones had been whitening on the sandy plains of Utrecht, or the rolling uplands of the Maas. And for beauty--you youths go mad for beauty--is there aught in the world to compare with him for comeliness? That little head and graceful neck, those swift strong legs and deep shoulders fashioned as if by a cunning sculptor--there is perfect beauty. And he is faithful even to death. He will carry me till he drops and leave a royal stable at the whistle of his homeless master. I tell you, young sir, there is nothing in the world like a noble horse and the joy of battle in a righteous cause.”

“In truth,” said Gervase, “you are proud of your horse with reason, but I trust there are other things in the world one may love with as good cause.”

“Aye,” answered the other bitterly, “you are young, and youth is full of hope and trust. The man you call your friend cajoles and tricks you, and the woman whose favour is the breath of your nostrils, deserts you at the first whisper of misfortune. These things are of the world and they endure for an hour; the son of perdition baits his traps with them, but the man whose hope is fixed, learns to shun them as a snare.”

“I have been taught otherwise,” said Gervase, “and I have had no reason to question what I have learnt. I have no trick of speech, but I hold by love and friendship.”

“And I tell you they are but shadows. Here there is no abiding city, and these things but wean our hearts from the eternal. Seven-and-fifty years have been the days of my pilgrimage, and at eighteen I saw my first battle. The blood of the youth is hot, the lusts of the flesh are strong upon him, and he is slow to see the finger of God writing upon the tablets of the heart. Mine was a wild youth and a wayward, and like another prodigal I went forth to riotous living. Surely I dwelt in the tents of Meshech, but God hath seen good to open the eyes of his servant.”

“Captain Macpherson,” said Gervase gravely, “I do not ask you to vouchsafe me your confidence, and I leave theology to the parson. I serve God after the fashion of the Church of England, and will do my duty as becomes my name and manhood. In all other things I am at your service, but in this we cannot walk together.”

He turned away and left the old soldier gazing after him earnestly.

The sun had already risen above the morning mists that had gathered themselves into fantastic shapes and were dispersing slowly down the valley--the promise of a lovely day in spring. The troopers had dismounted, and were making a frugal meal of dry rye bread and cold bacon, washed down by a draught of the spring water that trickled down the rock by the roadside. Weary with their long march, covered with mud and flaked with foam, the horses cropped the long grass that grew luxuriantly under the hedge of thorn. Gervase threw himself down on the grassy sward by the road-side, and watched the picturesque scene around him. Then, tired as he was, a heavy drowsiness overtook him, and the deep valley and the swelling uplands, and the horses, and the travel-stained troopers became part of a broken dream. Over his head he seemed to hear the jubilant notes of a thrush in the white thorn, and in a little while a deep voice reading one of the psalms that glow with the rapture of battle and thrill with the triumph of faith, followed by the loud “Amen” of the troopers.

Then he fell into a profound sleep. When he awoke the sunshine filled the valley, and Macpherson was standing over him with a smile on his rugged face.

“Is it time to march?” cried Gervase.

“It is time to be up and doing,” Macpherson answered solemnly. “This day will try of what stuff the Lord hath made your sinews and fashioned your heart. Yonder is the enemy.”

Gervase leapt hastily from his resting-place. Already the men were in their saddles and were examining the priming of their carbines. Far down the valley he could see a small body of horse, the sunshine glancing on their swords and steel head-pieces, and the dust rising thickly under the hoofs of the chargers. A little in advance were riding two officers, one of whom rode a grey horse and was conspicuous by the scarlet cloak he wore over his armour.

Gervase watched Macpherson with surprise and admiration. The old soldier seemed like another man under the inspiration of the coming struggle; his eyes flashed, his chest heaved, and his deep strong voice thrilled like a trumpet. Leaping like a youth into his saddle and laying his hand lightly for a moment on the restive charger´s neck, he drew his sword from the scabbard. Then he placed himself across the road in front of the troopers and pointed with his sword to the enemy, who had already quickened their pace and were advancing at a sharp trot.

“Yon are Galmoy´s Horse, gentlemen. They are nearly three to one, and I am told they can fight. What say ye?”

Already the troopers had caught the joyous spirit of their grim leader; his voice stirred them like a trumpet. They had caught the contagion of his hope, his faith, and his enthusiasm.

“We are doing God´s work, sir,” said Sergeant Hackett soberly, as he gathered up his reins and drew his hat tightly over his brow. “We will follow you, Captain Macpherson, even to the mouth of the pit. Not one of us will fail you.”

“Then we will show the butchers what we can do. Remember, let ‘no quarter´ be our word this day. Do not crowd together until we have drawn their fire. Then give them a salvo steadily, and like brave men and careful. Thereafter in God´s name, let them feel the sword´s edge and the power of the true religion.”

Macpherson had risen in his stirrups, his face glowing with the joy of battle. Already the enemy had shortened the distance between them, and a few minutes more would bring them within pistol shot. They could already hear the heavy trampling of the horses as they came galloping up the hill, the jingling of the bridles and the clank of the swords. As the little troop swept up the hillside it made a gallant show. Gervase felt his heart beat fast and loud; his hand trembled with excitement on the hilt of his sword, and his breath came quick. He found himself longing with feverish impatience for the word to charge, but Macpherson kept his men well in hand, trying their temper, and watching them narrowly like a wary soldier. Not a man showed sign of fear or indecision.

“You are a young soldier, Mr. Orme,” said Macpherson, with a joyous laugh, “and young soldiers are ever rash and heedless. Let us give yon sons of Belial time to think of what they do. You will feel in good time the thirst to trample down and slay, and the Devil driving you to rend and to destroy. Wait till they come to where the road widens into the marsh. Yon fellow rides like a gallant gentleman--a Frenchman too, I think, and knows his work. Ha! here they come. Now, my children, follow me, and may God defend his cause this day!”

Macpherson put spurs to his horse, and his troopers followed in an orderly array at a hard gallop.

It was clear the enemy was uncertain as to their intentions, for immediately Macpherson had put his horse in motion, they drew up short and halted. But still the little troop kept on steadily, riding two abreast along the narrow road, and holding their carbines in readiness to fire. The young officer on the grey charger had thrown off his scarlet cloak, and was giving directions to his men with the point of his sword. Several of the troopers had dismounted and lined the roadside where a fence of loose stones presented a sort of low screen, or parapet.

And now barely a hundred yards divided the combatants. Already a shot or two had been fired, but as they came within range the dragoons, without waiting for further orders, fired wildly. Gervase, who rode in advance, turned to see if any of the men behind him had been struck; not a man moved in his saddle. Then Macpherson rose in his stirrups and shouted in a voice of thunder----

“Now, my gallant fellows, fire! Aim at the horses and let every shot tell.”

For an instant, as it seemed, the little troop stood fast, and orderly as on parade, took aim and fired. Several horses went down, and for a minute all was confusion and disorder in the royal ranks.

That minute was the turning tide of battle. With a wild shout and a deep oath, Macpherson waved his sword above his head and gave the charge. Instinctively Gervase drove his spurs into his horse´s flanks, and grasped the hilt of his sword with a tighter clutch. In another moment he was in the middle of the red-coats and almost without knowing how it was done, he saw his blade buried in the body of the dragoon who had first encountered him. As in a dream he saw the man catch convulsively at the horse´s mane and fall in a heap to the ground. Macpherson was at his side, hammering on sword and head-piece. His voice could be heard above the clank and clash of steel and the shouts of the fighting men. “No quarter to the men of Belial. Strike home for the true religion. God´s wounds! you must have it.”

Two troopers had thrown themselves across his path; one he had charged so violently that his horse had stumbled and gone down, crushing his rider; the other parried his thrust[thrust] and then turned to flee. But his doom was on him. Down came the deadly steel on the iron head-piece. Nothing could withstand that blow, but the sword was shivered at the hilt.

“The curse of Heaven light on the hand that fashioned thee!” cried Macpherson, hurling the hilt from him and drawing his pistol from the holster. His men followed close upon his heels, hacking and hewing with their heavy swords. No man failed in his duty that day.

Gervase saw the young officer before him gallantly striving to rally his men, and imploring them to stand. Quick as thought their swords were crossed, and Gervase saw his eyes light up with inexpressible hate. “Ah! canaille,” he cried, “you will see at least how a gentleman can fight.”

It was not a time for nice tricks of fence, and Gervase saw in a moment that his opponent was a more skilful swordsman than himself. He saw the flash of his opponent´s blade and felt the warm blood streaming down his face, but he did not give him time to repeat the blow. Throwing himself upon him he caught him round the neck, and together they fell to the ground. It was indeed a miracle how they escaped beneath the hoofs of the trampling horses as they grappled with one another in the dust. Then the tide of battle swept past them, and they were left alone to fight it out. But the delicate Frenchman was no match for the stout young giant whose arms were as strong as an oak sapling. Gervase placed his knee upon his breast, and wrenched the sword from his hand.

“It is enough, Monsieur; I yield myself prisoner.”

Gervase leapt to his feet and reached out his hand to assist his prisoner from the ground. But the other refused the proffered courtesy, and when he had risen, nonchalantly began to arrange his disordered dress, and to brush the dust from his clothes with an embroidered handkerchief. “Your arms, monsieur, are very strong, but I do not understand the fashion of your country. We do not fight thus in France. It is my regret that you should not see the end of this gallant affair.”

There was a covert sneer in the tone that there was no mistaking.

“I have seen the beginning and the end, sir,” Gervase said simply. “Your men do not seem to relish the fare we have provided for them.”

“My men are not soldiers; they are poltroons.[poltroons.] Let us dismiss them. May I inquire into whose hands it has been my good fortune to fall?”

“My name, sir, is Gervase Orme, sometime ensign in Mountjoy´s regiment, and now in arms for the Protestant religion and the liberties of the kingdom. I am very much at your service.”

“You are very good, but Victor de Laprade, whom men call Vicomte of that name, seeks favour from none. I think,” he continued, looking down the road along which the pursuit had rolled, “we are likely to be better acquainted.”

“It is not to be doubted, sir: the skirmish is over and your men are wholly broken.”

“Nay, Luttrel was a brave man; I am sorry for him, but the rest--let them go.”

The moment that the Vicomte de Laprade had gone down in Gervase´s grasp, the dragoons had broken and fled, followed hard by Macpherson and his troop. The pursuers were in no mood to give quarter that day. The atrocities of Galmoy some time before had filled their hearts with a thirst for vengeance; it was a sacred duty not to spare, but to slay, and slay without remorse or pity. Far down the road thundered the headlong flight, pursuers and pursued mingled together. De Laprade had seated himself on the fence by the roadside, and watched without apparent interest the incidents of the pursuit. It was impossible to tell from his face what his real feelings might have been.

"C´est fini," he said lightly, as the troopers halted and turned to retrace their footsteps to where the conflict had commenced.

Macpherson came up, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

“I saw you go down,” he said to Gervase, “and feared it was all over with you. I should have been sorry to my dying day, for you have shown the right soldier spirit,--you have been touched?”

“A mere scratch, but we have gained a great success.”

“A pretty affair. What popinjay have we yonder?” and he pointed to De Laprade.

“One of King James´s new French gentlemen,” said Gervase smiling, “who is the first captive of my bow and spear.”

“One of the accursed race,” said Macpherson grimly. “And the message hath come to me; ‘no quarter,´ was our word this day. His blood be upon his own head.” He drew his pistol from the holster, and dismounted from his horse. Gervase saw the deep gloom gather on his brow.

“What would you do?” Gervase cried, catching his arm and placing himself between his Captain and the Vicomte. “In God´s name, you do not mean to say that you would slay him in cold blood?”

“In cold blood, no, but in righteous vengeance for the evil that hath been wrought upon our people. Do you forget Dixie and Charleton? I have taken a vow before the Lord this day that not one of them shall escape me. The blood of Abel is crying from the ground, and shall I, the least of his servants, suffer that cry to go unheard?”

“While I live you shall not injure one hair of his head. The lessons that you have learned in the school of Turenne we will not practise here. No prisoner shall be slain in cold blood while Gervase Orme can wield a sword to defend him.”

Macpherson turned away and replaced his pistol in the holster without a word, and stooping down began to examine the forelegs of his charger. While this scene was being enacted on which his life depended, the Vicomte continued sitting upon the fence, flicking the dust from his riding boots with his handkerchief and smiling an easy smile of apparent indifference. He seemed to be the only one who had no interest in the issue of the quarrel. Then he rose, and going over to Gervase held out his hand.

“However you may yet decide this trivial affair,” he said, “I thank you for your courtesy. I declined to take your hand; I beg your pardon. You are a brave man and a gentleman. But it is a matter of regret that you should quarrel with your friend on my poor account.”

“There is no quarrel, sir,” said Macpherson, who had overheard his words, raising himself to his full height, and looking steadily as he spoke. “This young gentleman was right, and I was wrong. He had given you quarter, which matter he may yet live to repent, and you were under his protection by the laws of war. I might have shot you down in the melee but I left him to deal with you. He hath seen good to spare your life, and in your presence, sir, I now ask his pardon, which will not be denied me.”

“I cannot pardon where there is no offence, Captain Macpherson,” said Gervase. “It was my good fortune to fight on the side that can afford protection, and had it been otherwise I am certain that M. de Laprade would have rendered me the like service.”

The Vicomte bowing low, raised his hat with a grand air. Then he said, addressing Macpherson, “Monsieur le Capitaine appears to regret that he did not shoot me. It is not yet too late to try his skill. By the kindness of this gentleman I have still my sword, and if you, sir, do not think it beneath your dignity to try a pass with a poor soldier and gentleman like myself, I shall be happy to give you the opportunity you desire. Here is a pretty piece of heath--how say you, sir?”

“I say that I fight only in the way of my duty, but at another time when public necessity may give way to private entertainment I shall have no objection to oblige you either with sword or pistol, on foot or horseback. No man that knows him will say that Ninian Macpherson declined a duello because he feared the thrust of a rapier or the shot of a pistol. When our journey is ended and the business now on hand completed----”

“Be assured I shall afford you what you are pleased to call your entertainment. And now may I ask whither you purpose to carry me?”

“We shall carry you, sir, as far as Enniskillen, and, mayhap, if you so desire it back to Londonderry.”

“I have no desires; I have learnt the uses of adversity.”

“Then you have learnt the last lesson a man can learn,” answered Macpherson, abruptly turning on his heel, and joining Hackett who was looking after one of the men who had been wounded.

The skirmish had in every sense been a complete success. Only one man had been slightly, and another severely wounded, and these raw and undisciplined yeomen had shown a wonderful steadiness and gallantry. When the horses of the dragoons had been collected, for Macpherson believed in gathering the fruits of victory, they were ready to start on the march.

“The prisoner is in your charge, Sergeant Hackett,” he said. “Shoot him through the head if he tries to run away.”

De Laprade shrugged his shoulders. “Bah!” he said, “your Captain eats fire. Whither would he have me run?”

“Not outside the reach of my carbine,” said Hackett drily.

Gervase had fallen into the rear, where he was presently joined by Macpherson, whose passion had apparently died away, and left his face pale with an almost ghastly pallor. They rode side by side, neither speaking a word. Macpherson´s head was bent on his breast, and Gervase could hear him muttering to himself in a low tone, but he could not catch the meaning of his words. He was evidently struggling with some violent emotion. Then he seemed to wake up from the profound reverie in which he had been sunk, and laying his hand on the arm of his companion, said in a low voice,

“Mr. Orme, thou art a well-conditioned and, I think, a godly young man, and though it does not beseem one of my gray hairs and length of years to open his heart to one young and lacking in experience as thou art, yet the spirit within me prompts me to speak.”

Gervase was silent.

“There are times,” he continued, “when the Spirit of the Lord is upon me. Then I can hear the strains of a rich and heavenly minstrelsy, and my soul is possessed with the joy of everlasting hope. Alas! I do begin to fear it is but the snare of the fowler. This day the evil one took possession of me. I relapsed into the gall of bitterness and the bonds of iniquity. I sware evil oaths; I rejoiced in the shedding of blood, nor was it the cause of the Lord that I followed this day, but the promptings of my own carnal heart. Can the Lord of Righteousness and the Prince of the powers of the air dwell in the same breast?”

“I do not know how these things may be,” Gervase answered, “but I know that you have done your duty this day like a good and valiant soldier. It may be that old habits are strong upon you, and an old warhorse like yourself lifts his ears at the sound of the charge.”

“The hearts of the elect are purified, and old habits cannot draw the soul from God.”

He looked at Gervase with a look of profound sadness in his eyes, and there was an undertone of despair in his voice. It was impossible to doubt his sincerity. Spiritual despair had seized upon him, and his narrow creed had no word of consolation to offer him in his hour of doubt. He had drawn aside the veil that concealed the workings of his heart.

“All the days of my youth were vanity,” he continued; “I squandered my substance in riotous living, and spent my strength in the lap of harlots. Then the Lord found me in the wilderness, and for ten years I have walked in the narrow way, till now mine enemy has found me this day; nay, not this day, but the hour I girt this sword on my side. I am the same man that fought at St. Gothard, and walked up the breach at Philisbourg.”

“And may I never fight by the side of a better soldier,” cried Gervase with assumed gaiety. "The Protestant cause could ill afford to lose an arm like yours. But for you we had never charged this day.

“Ah! it was a gallant onfall;” said the old soldier meditatively, “I have seldom seen a brisker, but it is vanity, vanity.” He sighed, and relapsed into silence, nor did Gervase venture to address him again till they rode into the village where they intended to pass the night.

CHAPTER II.
OF THE ENTERTAINMENT THEY HAD AT THE INN.

At the door of the inn Hackett dismounted, and unfastening the latch with some difficulty entered the kitchen. A fire of peat was smouldering on the hearth, and the remains of what was evidently a hurried meal were scattered on the table. A number of pike heads and scythe blades were piled in a corner. There was no one in the room. He rapped loudly with the hilt of his sword on the table and presently a woman made her appearance from one of the inner rooms. She seemed greatly alarmed at the unexpected arrival of her guests, and as she entered she cast a look of fear and expectancy round the kitchen. Her eyes fell on the weapons in the corner and she stopped short.

“We want food and lodgings for the night,” said the sergeant, who had been examining one of the pewter mugs carefully, “lodgings for the men and horses. Bacon, I see, you have in plenty. Is there hay in the stable?”

“Ay,” she answered nervously, “but my man is from home and I cannot serve you.”

“Oh, for that we will just wait upon ourselves and be beholden to ye all the same. Your man, I doubt not, has taken to another trade, and belike it were as well we did not fall across him. And for what do ye keep these toys?” he asked, kicking the heap of weapons with his jack boot. “These are not tools an honest man would willingly handle, but we will inquire further thereinto.”

So saying he went out to make his report to Macpherson, who was awaiting his return with undisguised impatience. “Things have an ill look, sir,” he said, with a stiff salute, “and I doubt not there is mischief brewing hereabouts; but there is a can of ale for ourselves and fodder for the beasts.”

“We can go no further if we would,” said Macpherson, “there is not another mile in the horses. And,” he continued, glancing at the capability of the house to withstand an attack, “we can make good this place against a hundred. Let the horses be looked to carefully. I myself will examine the stable. Come, sweetheart, thou hast done a good day´s work and hast well earned a night´s repose.”

Gervase and the Vicomte entered the house together. The woman had replenished the fire and was busily engaged making her preparations for the reception of her unwelcome guests. As De Laprade came in she gave a start of surprise, but the look of recognition, which for a moment lighted up her face, immediately gave place to the dull, stolid expression she had worn in her interview with the sergeant. She continued her work apparently unconscious of the presence of the two strangers. The Vicomte threw his hat and sword on the table and sat down on a stool close to the hearth.

“I am destined to see Madame again,” he said, stretching out his hands towards the warmth of the hearth, for the evening had grown chilly. “And how is la belle Marie?”

As he spoke a tall girl of eighteen, barefooted and bareheaded, entered the door, tall and straight as a young poplar, lissom and graceful, with the deep blue black eyes and low broad brow that one meets again and again among the peasants of the West country. Here is the pure Greek, instinct with life, but touched with a certain grace of sad and pensive beauty. She also started with surprise when her eyes fell on the young Frenchman.

“I thought, mother,” she said hesitating--"I thought--"

“Have done thinking and help me with the supper,” her mother answered, with a glance of warning. “The gentlemen have ridden far and will stay the night.”

“Madame does not recognize her old friends, ma belle,” said De Laprade lightly, “but you will not be so cruel. When we parted this morning, I did not dream that we should meet so soon, but it is the fortune of war.”

“And the rest,” cried the girl eagerly, “are they also--”

The woman looked up anxiously for a moment. "Poof!--they are gone--ecrasés; they need no roof over their heads to-night, nor a pretty maiden to wait on them. They drank too deep last night to have cool heads this morning, and now they will never hear the reveille sound again. It is a great pity, but the fortunes of war--"

“I don´t understand,” said the girl. “What has become of them?”

“They are lying yonder by the roadside and will waken never again.”

The woman threw up her hands with a loud cry and fell on the floor.

“These barbarians have then some touch of humanity,” said De Laprade softly, while Gervase ran forward and raised her head upon his knee, and the girl seized a water can which stood on the table and bathed her cheeks and forehead. In a few minutes the woman recovered consciousness and looked round her wildly.

“It is not true,” she cried; “´tis a lie. My beautiful boy that left me singing this morning with the lovelight dancing in his eyes is not dead. The sword was never sharpened that could slay him. I care not for King James or King William and for--why should they not leave me in peace? Tell me, for the Holy Virgin´s sake, that it is not true.” She rose and staggering forward threw herself at De Laprade´s feet and caught him round the knees, with streaming eyes and a look of wild entreaty in her face.

He endeavoured ineffectually to disengage himself, but she clung to him with desperate earnestness. His look of placid indifference gave way to one of profound pity. “It may be,” he said, gently endeavouring to raise her to her feet, “it may be that I was wrong and your son is not dead. I remember me he was our guide and did not carry arms. He may have escaped the fate that befell the others, but one of these gentlemen will tell you.”

At this moment Macpherson, accompanied by the sergeant, entered the house.

“What pother is this?” he said roughly. “If you are unwilling to serve us we will even wait upon ourselves. We do not make war on women, but they must not hinder us.”

Gervase drew him aside by the sleeve, hastily explaining how matters stood; but there was no comfort or hope in his answer. He had not seen the boy, but there might be good reason for that; the woman should have kept the lad at home if she was unwilling he should take his chance, and no one could be blamed if he went down with the rest. One more or less, what did it matter?

The girl stood listening to their brief conversation with flashing eyes, and then took her mother by the arm, and drawing her into the inner room closed the door behind them.

Macpherson was in the enemy´s country and accordingly made himself at home. Under his direction a meal was soon prepared, and a cask of home-brewed ale that had been discovered in a recess, was rolled into the middle of the floor, and the men helped themselves. They were too tired for much speech and devoted themselves to their repast in silence, addressing one another occasionally in undertones, and making huge inroads on the rashers and coarse bread that rapidly disappeared before them. Macpherson sat moodily apart, eating and drinking but sparingly--a marked contrast to De Laprade who seemed to forget that he was a prisoner, and laughed at his own conceits with light-hearted gaiety. He had divested himself of his peruke and riding boots, and stretched himself along the rude settle that stood near the hearth. He appeared to pay no attention to the stern leader who scowled more and more deeply as the Vicomte´s laugh grew louder, and the tone of his conversation assumed a more unbecoming levity. Gervase could not help feeling interested, for the type was altogether new to him--there was a life and colour about the stories to which he was a stranger; it was a little bit of Versailles, brilliant and careless, set down in the wilds of Fermanagh.

“Pardieu!” said the Vicomte, “it was play that did it; there was nothing else left. My creditors will miss me, I do not doubt, but they were troublesome and I hate trouble; so I hastened to seek glory--bah! it is a greater trouble than the other. Where is the glory when your soldiers will not fight, and your king is a poltroon? There is no music like the rattle of the dicebox, when fortune, the beautiful goddess, is smiling like a lover. Love and play are the two things that make life worth living.”

“Of love,” said Gervase, “I know nothing, but for play--I leave that to the fool and the knave. Nay, I mean not to say that men of honour have not ere now given themselves up to its strange fascination, but it was their weakness. For me, I like rather to hear the yelp of the otter hounds when the morning is young and the spring woods are full of life and beauty, or the cry of the beagles when the scent is lying strong. You have never seen the brown trout in the freshet?”

“There were no fish in the ponds at Versailles,” said the Vicomte drily, “but when a great lady dropped her fan--”

Macpherson rose to his feet and drew out the small leather-bound volume that Gervase had seen him use before. “There has been enough of this untimely jesting,” he said. “These are not manners that suit our station or our work, and if you, sir, care not to join in the devotions of Christian men, I shall not compel you to remain, but you may retire to your repose. But as for us, we will thank God for His watchful care this day.”

“Your devotions, sir, will interest me beyond measure.”

“Hackett, give me the light,” said Macpherson, looking for a moment sternly at the speaker from under his heavy eyebrows. The sergeant went to the hearth and taking up a blazing piece of resinous fir held it up to his leader, who opened the book and began solemnly to read one of those Psalms that breathe forth vengeance and savage triumph.

“Plead my cause, oh Lord, with them that strive with me, fight against them that fight against me. Take hold of shield and buckler and stand up for my help.”

Then he closed the book and dropping on his knees (an example which was followed by all the company except the Vicomte, who was apparently fast asleep) he prayed loudly and fervently. His prayer was to some extent a repetition of the verses he had been reading, clothed in more homely language. He prayed that God would lead His people forth in safety through the perils and dangers that encompassed them; and that the wicked oppressor might be taken in his own toils and destroyed utterly. Then from the language of supplication he passed to the enthusiasm of prophecy. The day was at hand when a great deliverance would be wrought for the people of God. The scarlet woman, sunken in her adulteries and witchcraft, would pass into the darkness of Tophet; they who lived by the sword would perish by the sword, and the Protestant cause would triumph over all its enemies. When he had finished, and his loud Amen was repeated by the kneeling men around him, he remained for some time on his knees apparently engaged in private prayer. Then he rose to his feet with the prompt alacrity that distinguished him, and gave the few necessary instructions for the night.

“We march at three,” he said abruptly. “Ralston will do duty at the Bridge, and Given will take the church at the upper end of the village. In three hours they will be relieved. There must be no sleeping on sentry duty, my lads,” he added, with additional sternness in his tone, “for we do not want our throats cut while we sleep. This is not child´s play, and if you fail in aught be assured you have a man to deal with who knows how to punish laggards.”

With these words he left the room abruptly and the men, with the exception of the two who had been selected for duty, settled themselves on the earthen floor of the kitchen to snatch a brief repose. Gervase had secured for himself a small room at the end of the house in which there was a rude bed, and which he had proposed to share with the Vicomte who, however, had declined his offer. The door of the room, which was of oak, was secured by a heavy bolt and this he fastened carefully behind him when he entered the apartment. The moon was shining bright and the sky was full of stars. From the little window Gervase could see the church tower standing square and black in the soft yellow moon-light, and the little river winding down the valley like a tangled silver thread. Placing his sword within reach and his pistols under his pillow, he threw himself on the pallet. But for some time his mind was too busy with the events of the day to allow him to settle himself to sleep. Half dreaming, half awake, he saw again and again in its deadly agony and unspeakable terror, the face of the man whom he had run through in the skirmish. He heard ringing in his ears the wild shouts of the charging horsemen, and his sword was raised aloft to strike, when his strength seemed suddenly to become as the strength of a little child, and his heart to die for fear within him. At length, worn out with the labour of the day, he fell into a profound and dreamless sleep.

It was long past midnight when he was awakened by the sound of the crashing and splintering of wood, the clash of weapons and the glare of blazing lights. Leaping, dazed and bewildered, from his bed, he caught up his sword, and placing his back against the wall, prepared to sell his life as dearly as possible. Already the stout oak panels had given way under the heavy blows that were being dealt from the outside. In another minute the door fell in with a crash, and the room was filled with flashing lights and a crowd of armed ruffians. At the sight of him standing with his weapon drawn, his assailants halted for a moment; then someone raised the cry: “Cut the throat of the heretic,” and there was a simultaneous rush upon him. They were so crowded together that they could not effectually use their weapons, and to his own surprise Gervase was able to keep them at bay.

When the first shock of surprise had passed, and it passed almost immediately, he felt his eyes clear and his nerves steady themselves into a cool and deliberate resolve to die, if needs must, like a valiant fighting man. He realized at a glance the extreme desperateness of the situation, and his very despair gave him courage. His grasp was firm and strong on the hilt of his sword, and the pulses of his blood began to beat steadily. In after days he wondered that it should be so, and like a simple and courageous gentleman, he set it down to no heroism of his own, but to the inspiration and direction of a higher Power. In a moment standing there he knew what had happened. The sentinels had been surprised at their post, the men below had been taken unawares and overpowered without resistance, and the hostelry was completely in the hands of the enemy. For him there was no hope of escape, and he knew he need expect no quarter. Leaping upon the bed, he parried the blows that were dealt at him. Again and again his assailants came surging up, and again and again he cleared the deadly circle round him. Already two or three bodies lay on the floor below him: his sword streamed with blood from the point to the hilt. For a moment there was a pause--his courage and coolness had checked the first rush. Then with a deep oath one of the fellows sprang forward, and caught him round the knees with a grasp that he could not disengage, and another leaping on the bed beside him, sought to wrest the weapon from his hand. He thought that the end was come and that in another minute it would be all over. But he felt his strength the strength of ten. Dealing one of the fellows a tremendous blow fair and straight in the face, he shortened his sword and ran the other through the body; without a sound the man rolled over and fell in a heap on the floor. Again the circle cleared round him and he drew a deep breath. Then there was a sound of rushing water in his ears; the room swam round him; tottering and falling he clung to the wall for support. Through a blinding mist he saw, or dreamt he saw, the gleam of uplifted weapons round him ready to strike, and he wondered that they did not make an end of him; then the tall figure of De Laprade with his rapier drawn, striking up the weapons that were aimed at him; surely, too, that was the voice of the gallant Vicomte?--"What, cowards! would you slay the boy now that he is down, when you could not face him with his sword in his hand? Ah, sang de Dieu! you shall not touch him. I command you; I, Victor de Laprade. Mille de Diables! take up these carcases and see if there is any life left in them. He is a gallant gentleman, and you shall not injure a hair of his head."

To the reeling brain of Gervase all was wild tumult and disorder; the lights blazed round him; the flash of gleaming steel and the shadow of dark passionate faces came and went; the strident clamour of angry voices sounded as from immeasurable distances. And then his senses failed him and he remembered no more.

When consciousness returned he was lying on the bed with the Vicomte bending over him, while a little dark man in a shabby cloak and wig very much the worse for wear, was stanching the blood that flowed from a wound in his shoulder. The room had been cleared, but some fellows whose faces showed that they had been robbed of their spoil, were gathered round the door, and looked on with countenances that betokened little goodwill toward the wounded man. The little surgeon went on busily with his work and when he had finished, rubbed his hands with an air of satisfaction.

“A neat bit of work, Vicomte; as pretty a piece of accidental skilfulness as ever I saw in my life. The one hundred and twelfth part of an inch would have relieved this tenement of clay of its immortal soul, and being a heretic----” and he shook his head vigorously. “However, ´tis but a trifle to one who hath youth and vigour. This excessive bleeding will relieve him of sundry humours and affections that lurk in the veins of youth, and in a day or two at the furthest his natural strength will assert itself. He must avoid the use of intoxicating fluids. But I´m thinking,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “there will be little for him after my lord and myself.”

Gervase opened his eyes and attempted to rise, but De Laprade, sitting beside him on the bed, gently restrained him.

“Be not in too great haste, my friend,” he said. “My Lord Galmoy will want to see you presently and you will need all your strength for the interview.”

“A very deadly disease for which there is no remedy known to the faculty,” added the surgeon; “especially when he is in his cups.”

“Monsieur le Medicin,” continued De Laprade, “tells me your wound is not serious, and if you can listen I should like to give you a word of advice, though little accustomed to give it.”

“I begin to feel better,” Gervase answered. “The wound is a trifle painful and my head is somewhat dull withal, but I have strength enough left to thank you, Vicomte, for your help. I doubt not but for your kindly assistance I had now been past this gentleman´s skill.”

“I assure you, my friend, ´twas nothing. These wolves have a taste for blood, but they like their game better dead than alive and are easily shaken off. But the wolf--I mean the gentleman--who will presently be inquiring for you is altogether different. Him you cannot so easily satisfy. I should advise you, in all friendship, to answer his questions as fully as becomes a man of honour, and not needlessly to offend him. For myself, if I can be of assistance, you may rely upon me.”

“I shall strive to do as you say. But for the others--what became of Macpherson?”

A smile passed over the Vicomte´s face. “When la belle Marie brought my Lord Galmoy to the house, he made sure that all your party were within, and made your men prisoners before they could draw a sword or fire a shot. But your captain, for what reason I know not, was passing the night in the stable, and when he was discovered he was already armed and putting the saddle on his great horse. For a pious Christian who is given to long prayers, he swears strangely. But he is a brave man and can fight sans doute. It was beautiful to see him swinging his long sword and swearing great oaths that I did not wholly understand. They went down before him like the corn, and the others fled crying that it was the devil. For myself I admire brave men and did not care to help the cowards. I doubt not he and I will meet again; and we shall finish our little quarrel and one of us will return no more.”

“Then he made his escape--on foot or on horseback?”

“The great horse is still standing in the bastle and your captain must walk far, Monsieur Orme, before he is at home. But you cannot kill such men; they do not easily die. If M. le Medicin will pardon me, I might suggest that we can now spare him, for I am assured that there are others who need his services.”

“Faith,” said the surgeon, “you are speaking the truth, Vicomte, for the mellow Falernian has been going round, and I can hear the gentlemen already in their cups. For you, sir, I hope to see you in the morning--though,” he added, under his breath, “as like as not with a cord round your neck and your feet in the air.”

“And now, my friend,” said De Laprade, when the doctor had left the room, “I doubt not you have heard of what manner is my Lord Galmoy. It is best to speak plainly. He can feel no pity nor show mercy. He cares not for the laws of war. Every prisoner is only an enemy. Should you answer him boldly I think your death is certain; even I who have some influence with him could not save you.”

“Have no fear for me,” said Gervase, rising to his feet and feebly attempting to stand; “for I have little fear for myself. Life is sweet and I do not wish to die, but the dread of death will not make me a coward. I shall die as I have humbly striven to live--though,” he added, with a faint smile, “hanging is hardly seemly for a gentleman. I knew poor Charleton, and they say he met his death like a man. I hope I may do the same when my time comes.”

“These are but heroics,” said the Vicomte; “we must not grumble at our cards but play the game, and yours--Well, sir, what do you want?”

A sergeant of dragoons entered the room and swaggered forward, “My Lord would see the prisoner, and I was sent to fetch him.”

“Tell my Lord Galmoy he will be with him in an instant, and that he is badly wounded. I myself will attend him and you need not wait.”

"Now, my dear Orme," he continued, as the man left the room with a doubtful nod, “take my arm and rely on my services; I have not forgotten yours. But act like a man of sense and forget your sermons until you are among your friends.”

De Laprade gave him his arm, and Gervase painfully descended the crooked staircase, his heart beating loudly and his hand trembling from weakness and exhaustion as he leaned on his companion.

CHAPTER III.
OF THE WAY MY LORD GALMOY SAT IN JUDGMENT.

The character of Lord Galmoy had recently gained an unenviable notoriety by his barbarous murder of Cornet Charleton and Captain Dixie at Fermoy, nor were there wanting those who asserted there were still darker stains on his character as a soldier. Such a man, Gervase well knew, would not stretch the laws of war in his favour, and it was more than likely that this savage cavalry-leader would not be disposed to treat him as a lawful enemy taken in battle, but as a rebel and a spy. For such there was a short shrift and a long rope.

When they entered the kitchen, the scene was one of the liveliest disorder and confusion. The room was filled with soldiers attired in every describable costume, some smoking by the fire, some eating and drinking, and all endeavouring to make themselves heard in a perfect babel of tongues. Hats, cloaks, and swords were piled upon the table, at the furthest end of which was seated a small knot of officers, among whom Gervase recognized the little surgeon who had attended to his wound, now busily engaged in discussing the contents of a pewter measure. At the head of the table was an officer of superior rank, and near him stood Hackett, with his hands bound behind his back and a great gash on his forehead. He had evidently been under examination, and his replies had not been satisfactory to the officer who was cross-examining him. At a glance Gervase recognized Lord Galmoy. His wig was pushed back, showing the closely-cropped black hair that came low down on the forehead. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips trembled with passion. Yet the face was a handsome one, though marked by the signs of excess and unbridled indulgence; a face weak in its almost feminine regularity, with delicately marked eyebrows, regular nose, and rounded chin; his hands were small and white as those of a woman.

As De Laprade made his way through the troopers who turned to stare at his companion, Galmoy said to the men who were in charge of Hackett, “Do not remove him. I may have further questions to put to him. And now for this young cock who crowed loud enough to bring the barn down about our ears; I think we shall soon cut his spurs. How say you, Vicomte?”

“I am under obligations to the gentleman, my Lord,” said De Laprade, “I trust your Lordship will not deal too harshly with him.”

“Why, damme, we shall all be under obligations presently, but we shall see. And now, sir, what is your name?”

Gervase caught the eye of the Vicomte fixed on him with a look of warning. “My name is Orme,” he said, feeling weak and faint with the loss of blood and the great heat of the atmosphere.

“And your rank?”

“A private gentleman, now serving with other gentlemen of the North in defence of our liberties.”

“And, prithee, who gave the gentlemen of the North commission to raise regiments or levy war on His Majesty´s subjects? Do you know, sir, that being found with arms in your hand without lawful authority to carry them, ´tis my duty to string you up as a warning to other malcontents. His Majesty has shown too much long-suffering, and had he been wise we had stamped out this cursed rebellion in a month. There is one King in Ireland, and with the help of God and His holy saints one King there will be. You shall drink his health, and that, damme, in a bumper.”

“That, with your Lordship´s pardon, I shall not do,” said Gervase, disregarding De Laprade´s gesture of warning. “I have taken the oath of allegiance to William and Mary, and to do what your Lordship asks would be an act either of disloyalty or hypocrisy.”

“We shall see,” Galmoy answered, with a smile that was full of meaning. “Fill up a cup, Whitney, for no one shall say that we did not give this damned rebel a chance. And now, sir, whither and on what errand were you away when we interrupted your journey?”

“Our destination was Enniskillen, but for our errand, from answering on that matter I pray your Lordship to hold me excused. My knowledge of our real purpose was but slight and would advantage you little.”

“And do you refuse to answer a plain question, sir?”

“I have given your Lordship my answer.”

Galmoy pushed his chair back from the table and his face grew purple with passion. Then he turned to the officers who were sitting round him, bringing his hand heavily down on the table. “God´s blood, gentlemen, what think you of that? I have been blamed by those who should know better, for the practice of a little just severity, and His Majesty would pet and pamper these rebels and treat them as faithful subjects who had been led astray. And here you have the issue. Every peasant and scurvy citizen struts about with armour on his back and a weapon in his hand, as if by the grace of God he had divine right to use the same. These are airs that will find no countenance while I am master of ceremonies.”

“This young gentleman should know better,” said one of the officers with a sneer, “for if I mistake not I have seen him before. Pray, sir, have we not met in Dublin when you were of Mountjoy´s regiment?”

“You can do what you please,” said Gervase, forgetting the caution he had promised himself to observe; “I am in your hands, but I will answer no questions; and if it be your good pleasure to murder me, on your heads is the infamy.”

“We will answer for ourselves whatever we do,” Galmoy answered. “But remember, the toast is waiting, and no man in my presence will refuse to drink to the health of His Majesty.”

“I will not drink it, and no man living will force me. I have already given you my reasons.”

“In good time,” said Galmoy, “we shall see. How say you, Major? Do you recognize this stiff-necked Whig as being lately in the service of His Majesty?”

“On that head,” was the answer, “I have no doubt. He was lodged at the Bunch of Grapes hard by the Castle, and though we were not intimate, I have seen him too frequently to be mistaken.”

“Then, by Heaven, the cup of his transgression is full and the provost-marshal must see that he drinks it. I will take the matter on my own shoulders and answer for it to whomsoever may question me. Look you, sergeant, take the prisoner without, and see that he drinks that measure of wine. A lighted match, if properly applied, will bring him to reason. In the morning you will see that he is shot before the door an hour before we march, for I do not like these things arranged hurriedly. For the other ´twere a pity he should not bear him company. Let them both go together.”

Weakened as he was by the loss of blood, and unstrung by the ordeal he had just passed through, Gervase tottered and fell on the bench beside which he had been standing. The room swam round him, and though he strove against it he felt that his senses were rapidly failing him. He would have fallen upon the floor, but De Laprade springing forward and placing his arm round him, supported him on the seat.

Then the Vicomte turned to Galmoy. “I have said nothing, my Lord, because I did not wish to interfere, as I thought your Lordship would have treated this gentleman as a fair prisoner of war. It is now my duty to speak; I trust your Lordship will hear me.”

Galmoy had now recovered his temper and answered De Laprade with a show of courtesy. “Certainly, my dear Vicomte, there is no one to whom I listen with greater pleasure. But I trust you will not ask me to alter this little arrangement.”

“You will pardon me; I have told you that I am under an obligation to this gentleman, and but for that obligation I should have been lying beside Luttrel on the high-road. I always endeavour to pay my debts of honour, and if need be I borrow from my friends to discharge them.”

“Faith! my creditors will tell you that I find it hard enough to discharge my own.”

“When the fight was over, the captain who has escaped showed a great mind to pistol me, when this Monsieur Orme, at great peril to his life, for I apprehended a pretty quarrel, stepped between us and compelled him to forbear. To him I owe my life, and I should be wanting in gratitude if I failed to avow the service he has done me.”

“There is not a traitor or a rebel in the country who has not a loyal subject to plead for him. God´s wounds! Viscount, you forget that he first attacked you on the high road, and that he has worn the uniform of His Majesty, whom Heaven preserve.”

“But, my Lord, I do not forget. These rebels have not saved my life and I do not intercede for them. I have lent my sword and service to the King of England, but I do not forget that I am a gentleman and a man of honour. In France we do not put our prisoners to the torture, nor will I fight in the company of those who do. Rather would I break my sword across my knees and disown the name I bear.”

“The Vicomte de Laprade is right, my Lord,” said the officer who had recognized Gervase. “Gratitude is a most estimable virtue, and exceedingly rare. In return for his services perhaps your Lordship will pretermit the young gentleman´s drinking the health, and merely give him his dry quietus in the morning.”

“With you, sir,” said De Laprade coldly, “I have no dealings now nor at any future time. I ask you, my Lord, for this gentleman´s life. ´Tis the only return I am likely to receive, and indeed it is all I ask.”

“I regret, my dear Vicomte, that I am unable to do your will in this matter, but we must hold out a warning to others. However, as Butler has suggested, he need not dance to-night. Sergeant, you need not apply the thumbscrew. And for you, sir, you can make up your mind to set the example you hinted at. As it is, you may thank Viscount de Laprade that you have escaped a dram that was like to prove bitter enough, but had I had my own way, you should have had both the dram and the halter for a renegade deserter.”

“Am I then, my Lord Galmoy, to understand that you refuse to accede to my request? and that the gentleman in whom your Lordship sees I am so deeply interested must die in the morning?”

Galmoy nodded and motioned to the officer who sat nearest him to pass the wine.

“I know not,” De Laprade continued, drawing himself up haughtily, “whether it is because my sword and friendship are of so little value and are held in so slight esteem, that this simple favour is denied me, or because in this country gentlemen are deaf to the voice of expediency. But I know that the brave Luttrel, and a braver man never drew a sword, met his death because you, sir, have seen good to bring in the executioner where the soldier fails.”

“Bah! we will not quarrel, though I will not answer for my temper should you provoke me further. You do not understand these matters, but for my part I hold it a safe rule to let every country manage its own affairs according to its own customs. Damme, man, this is not the court of Versailles, but the country of Whiggery and pestilent traitors, where every Jack-pudding is up in arms against his king and master. In a few months you will have learned not to be so whimsical.”

“I trust that I shall never learn to forget that I am a gentleman.”

De Laprade´s manner was so pointed and his tone so full of fine, studied disdain that Galmoy, who could not fail to see that an insult was intended, leapt to his feet and drew his sword. In an instant his example was followed by the Vicomte. But they were not permitted to fight out their quarrel, for several gentlemen threw themselves between them, and succeeded in disarming them both; not, however, without difficulty in the case of Galmoy, who seemed almost to have been deprived of his reason in the excess of his passion. In vain they endeavoured to assure him that no insult had been intended, and that he had misinterpreted the Vicomte´s words, while the Vicomte himself stood looking on with a smile playing round his lips, cool and unconcerned as was his wont.

In the midst of the confusion Gervase was removed from the room into the open air. His guards permitted him to sit down on the stone drinking-trough outside the door, while one of them went to prepare a place in which he might pass the night securely. Bending down till his forehead touched his knees, he endeavoured vainly to collect his thoughts and to realize what had happened, for his mind was still confused and weak. He knew that he was about to die, but it seemed to him at that moment as if it were another and not himself who had taken part in the drama that had just concluded. For himself, he was drifting blindly among shadows that grew thicker and darker as he sought to dispel them. The voices he had heard were still ringing in his ears; the faces he had seen were still coming and going. Then he heard the voice of Hackett and looked up. The old sergeant was standing beside him with his hands still bound behind his back, and his grey hair hanging, matted and stained with blood, about his face.

“Be of good cheer, Mr. Orme, it will soon be over, sir,” he said, with homely dignity. “I am proud to think that you bore yourself bravely, and showed them that a gentleman and a Christian does not fear death. I should have liked, if it had so pleased the Almighty, to have died on the field of battle, but since ´tis His will, then His will be done. It is not for us to complain or dispute the great decrees. I will see you in the morning, sir,” he added, as his guards prepared to lead him away, “and it may hap that we shall enter the Kingdom together.”

Gervase was conducted to a low outhouse where a quantity of fresh straw had been spread for him, and one of the troopers, with rough goodnature, threw a horse cloth over his shoulders, for the night had grown chilly and he was shivering with cold. Then they withdrew, locking the door behind them, and left him to await the arrival of the provost-marshal in the morning.

CHAPTER IV.
OF HOW THE VICOMTE PAID HIS DEBT.

Orme lay for a considerable time in a dull stupor, unable to collect his thoughts, but by degrees his senses came back, and he awoke to the situation in which he was placed. He believed that it was idle to hope for mercy; he was in the hands of a man who was not likely to trouble himself further about his fate. He felt that he must die, and that he must face death with what courage he could command. He had never thought much about it before, but now when he stood face to face with death, it became so real and so terrible that for a time he stood aghast at the contemplation. He saw with awful vividness the preparations of the morning, and he thought of the moment when his soul and body would part company for ever. He was young, and the great mysteries of life and death had never troubled him. The path of his duty had been simple and plain; to stand by the truth, to show himself modest and pure and valorous always, to betray no trust, and to worship God according to the custom of his fathers--this was his creed and his plan of life; according to this he had sought to live and die. He had no desire for the martyr´s death and the martyr´s crown; he loved life and clung to it, and now all the more when he was in danger of losing it. Men like Hackett might find consolation and support in religion at a time like this, but for himself it could not lift him superior to the fear of suffering and the dread of death. There was, however, some consolation in the thought that he had striven honestly to do his duty, and that he had not begged in any unmanly way for life. Then his thoughts took another turn, and his whole past life unrolled itself before him. Incidents of his boyhood that he had long forgotten came fresh into his mind. He saw the stream and the stepping-stones where he had been used to fish, and the patches of sunshine glinting on the water through the willows; the old stone house and its tall chimneys lifting themselves among the oaks and firs; the dark wainscoted room where his father had taught him from Tacitus and Cæsar; and he longed with a great longing for life.

He raised himself from the straw and stretched out his hands in the darkness. The walls of the shieling in which he was confined were of wood, and he did not doubt that had he not been disabled he could have forced his way out. As it was escape even yet might be possible. To feel again the fresh wind blowing across the hillside and see the clear light of the stars, and the dark green fields stretching under them--the thought gave him strength and courage. Feeling carefully along the walls of the shed, and searching for a loose plank he came to the door which opened from without. He stood listening for the tread of the sentry´s feet, but there was no sound audible but the beating of his own heart that throbbed wildly with the hope of escape. The door was not guarded. The planks of which the door was made, were light and had been roughly put together, but he found it impossible to make any impression upon them, though he strained and pulled till his wound broke out afresh. In the darkness he searched for a weapon that might assist him, but he could find nothing suited to his purpose. Again he followed the walls of the shed with his hands, searching carefully for a weak place in the timbers, but again he was unsuccessful. Then the great wave of hope subsided, and he threw himself once more upon the straw to compose his mind to meet with resignation the fate that was before him. There seemed to be no hope of escape left. By degrees he grew calm, and from some odd corner in his brain there came to his mind the lines--

“Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for an hermitage.”

Again and again they repeated themselves until they seemed almost to lose their meaning for him; but the feeling remained with him, and by and by he found himself looking forward to the morning with resignation.

Suddenly in the unbroken quiet he heard the sound of footsteps on the causeway without; then the door of the shed was opened, someone entered, and the flash of a lantern for a moment dazzled his eyes. It was De Laprade, flushed with wine and somewhat unsteady in his gait. Closing the door behind him, he looked round and saw Gervase lying in the corner.

“Eh, mon ami!” he said, laying down the lantern and removing his cloak, “but you have had a bad quarter of an hour. It was my fear that they would hang you at once, for these gentlemen are not nice in their manners nor long in their grace. It would give me much delight to measure swords with Galmoy, but the barbarian will not fight save when he is drunk, and then I am generally far from sober myself. These are not comfortable quarters,” he added abruptly, looking round him and shrugging his shoulders.

“They are good enough for a dying man who has but a few hours to live,” said Gervase gravely.

“For that we shall see,” was the answer. “They have succeeded, not without difficulty, in putting my colonel to bed, and his condition is such that he will be hard to awake. I, Victor de Laprade, will now proceed to arrange matters for him. Are you able to stand?”

Gervase caught a glimpse of his meaning and again a wild hope arose in his heart. But reflecting for a moment, he felt that he could not take advantage of the gallant Frenchman´s generosity, and he shook his head. “I cannot allow you,” he said, “to undergo further risk for me; I cannot do it; already you have far more than repaid any kindness I was able to render you.”

“Have no fear for me; I am able to answer any man who may dare to question me in what I do or leave undone. You do not know me, Mr. Orme. No man shall prevent my paying my debts of honour, whether they be debts of friendship or enmity. And shall I refuse to give him his life to whom I owe my own, when I have merely to turn the key in the door and say, ‘Friend, that is your road´? It is impossible.”

“But you do not recollect----”

“I recollect perfectly. Let us not enter into heroics, my friend, for this thing is simple and easy. Galmoy shall not know that to me you owe your escape; indeed it is probable that in the morning he will have forgotten you altogether, and remember only his headache. I have already provided you with a horse; your captain´s great beast is the best in the stable; and for a passport, this will have to serve your turn, though it will be best that you should avoid showing it too frequently. The name of De Laprade will not carry you far in this barbarous country. But, in faith, the signature might pass for that of His Majesty King Louis himself, or for that matter, of my Lord Galmoy. The handwriting is hardly as sober as I could wish--indeed, it is cursedly tipsy. When we next meet it may be at the sword´s point, in which case it were well to forget this interlude of Corydon and Strephon and try what yesterday we failed to finish. I have a pretty thrust in tierce that I should like to show you.”

“If we meet I hope it will never be as enemies,” said Gervase with warmth, “for I can never forget how much I owe you. I fear you undergo great risk in thus serving me.”

“Find yourself safe on shipboard or within the walls of Londonderry, and trouble not yourself about any danger that I may run. I can protect my reputation and my honour with my sword, and for this act if need be I shall answer to the king himself, though I fear he has not the nice sense of honour. I knew him in Whitehall; he is no king, but a priest in the purple, and a priest without piety. Your William is cold, but he is the better man. There is but one thing more. Should you again find your captain, tell him that I have not forgotten his promise, and that I look forward with eagerness to our next interview. I have crossed swords with Lauzun and Hamilton and will teach the clown to threaten a gentleman. That is finished, and now to horse.”

Raising Gervase from the ground, he supported him to the door, in the meantime wrapping his own cloak about his shoulders and warning him that the night air was bad for a green wound. Then he left him for a minute and returned almost immediately with Macpherson´s grey charger, already harnessed. The windows of the tavern were still aglow with light, and the sound of loud and uproarious laughter rang on the quiet night as he helped Gervase into the the saddle. There was little likelihood of pursuit, for it was clear that no precautions had been taken to guard the prisoners, and before Gervase was missed he would have put many a good mile between himself and his pursuers. The only fear was, that weak and exhausted as he was, it would be impossible for him to continue his journey for any length of time. Still, there was the sense of the removal of a great dread, and a feeling of joyous freedom that gave him new heart and strength. He gathered up the reins in his hands and at that moment the recollection of Hackett flashed upon his mind.

“It was selfish and cowardly of me to have forgotten,” he said. “Is it not also possible to save the sergeant? I feel that I am deserting a comrade and I should not like to leave him.”

“What can you do for him,” said De Laprade, “but make one more for the hangman? Your remaining will not save him; your going cannot harm him. I cannot do more than I have done, but I tell you to be of good courage regarding his safety, for I give you my word of honour that I will do what I can for the psalm-singing rogue. Be of good cheer. And now you will find a pistol in your holster which may be of some use. It may be we shall meet again. Farewell!”

Gervase wrung De Laprade´s hand in silence and giving his impatient horse the rein passed through the yard, and found himself in the village street which lay quiet and dark before him. The tower of the church was darkly outlined against the starlit sky, and from a distance the murmur of the little stream stole with a hushed and solemn music through the night. Nowhere was there sight or sound of life; to the ear of the rider the hoofs of the horse rang upon the road with startling distinctness, though he walked him slowly past the sleeping houses. Then he came to the bridge, and on the bridge the the horse started suddenly and sniffed at something lying at his feet. The night was dark with the moon lifting faintly through a bank of cloud, but Gervase saw on the road the body of a man lying on his back with his arms outspread. He dismounted with difficulty and stooping down, saw it was Ralston. The body was already cold and the pulse had ceased to beat. It was evident that he had been surprised at his post, for his carbine lay undischarged at his side, and the long sword he had carried lay under him, unloosed from the scabbard. This was the young fellow whose merry song had disturbed Macpherson in the morning--his lips were silent enough now. Gervase bent down and touched the cold forehead. As yet he had not grown callous to the sight of sudden death, and it was with a lump in his throat and a mist before his eyes that he again set out on his perilous journey.

The road, a mere cart-track, wound for several miles up the hill, climbing for the most part through a dense growth of stunted firs, but here and there winding through the open bog and hardly to be distinguished from it. But the great horse seemed to have a natural instinct for the beaten track, and put his generous shoulders bravely to it. So steady he was and so footsure, that his rider let the reins fall upon his neck and left him to choose his path as he pleased. A small rain had begun to fall and there was a sharpness in the wind blowing down the mountain-gap. But Gervase heeded neither the rain nor the wind. For a time the sense of deliverance swallowed up every other thought, but presently he began to consider what fate was in store for him. It was hardly likely that he could reach Londonderry in safety, for the enemy would by that time no doubt have completely invested the city; and there was only a remote chance of his finding a ship in Lough Foyle, could he get so far. He had now no doubt that the enemy held possession of the roads; should he be fortunate enough to meet with part of the regular force he did not much doubt that as a prisoner he would receive honourable terms, but should he meet with a body of those marauders who hung on the skirts of the regular army and whose main business was robbery and murder, there was little hope of his life. But, after all, was it not idle to hope to escape at all? Wounded as he was he could not long continue his journey but must inevitably sink from weakness and exhaustion.

“THE STRANGER CAUGHT HIS HORSE BY THE REIN”

The road began to descend once more into the valley, and under the grey light of the early dawn he could see the fields and hedgerows sloping down to where the little river ran through clumps of hazel and osier. As he drew towards the river the sound of running water was pleasant to hear in the unbroken silence--a sign of movement and life. After a while the road grew narrow and ran through an arch of tall poplars, through which he could see the dull red light of the rising dawn at the further end. On one side of the road was a sluggish pool of water and on the other a high hedge of thorns. He had ridden half way through this dark colonnade when he saw the figure of a man standing in the shadow, apparently awaiting his approach. He could not see his face but he could see that he had a weapon in his hand. He instinctively drew from his holster the pistol with which De Laprade had provided him, and was about to drive his spurs into the charger´s flanks, when the stranger sprang forward, caught his horse by the rein, and placed the point of a sword at his throat. Gervase presented his pistol at the head of his assailant and fired point-blank, but the hammer snapped ineffectually on the flint. Then he drave the spurs deep into the horse´s sides, but he stopped short and refused to move.

“This has come as an answer to prayer,” said a deep voice. “Dismount, sir, and that speedily; I have business to do that will not brook delay and your necessity, however pressing, must yield to mine.”

In a moment Gervase recognized the full sonorous voice as that of Macpherson. The horse, too, had recognized his master, for he gave a joyous whinney.

“Use no force, Captain Macpherson,” said Gervase; “right glad am I to see you, for I had begun to fear that we should meet no more.”

“It is Mr. Orme,” said the old soldier, lowering the point of his weapon and placing his hand on the horse´s neck. “I knew not what withheld my hand that I did not strike, but now I know. Little did I think as I heard the sound of the horse´s feet far down the road that I was listening to the tramp of my brave Bayard, or that it was for you that I held my sword and prepared to strike hard and deep. It was God´s mercy that my pistol was left behind or I should have brought you down like a laverock on the wing. And how have the others fared?”

Gervase told him briefly what had happened, explaining how he owed his life to the kindness of De Laprade, and how Hackett had been left behind, with the prospect of a violent death before him.

Macpherson interrupted him with many interjaculations, and when he had finished exclaimed dejectedly:

“My fault, my fault! that comes of sending a boy to do a man´s errand. The lad fell asleep and the villains stole a march on us. There is no use crying over milk that is spilt, but I would that I had arranged it otherwise. And old Hackett--I saw he was made of the right stuff; they may break but they will not bend him. I will yet make them pay for it. And now let us hold a council of war, for in no case can we let the grass grow under our feet.”

“I fear,” said Gervase, leaning forward on the horse´s neck and feeling faint and ill, “that I am not in a condition to travel with much expedition. I have lost some blood though I do not think the wound is serious.”

“Hell´s fury! man, why did you not tell me that you had been touched? Here have we been talking like a pair of garrulous gossips, while haply in the meantime your wound needs that I should look to it. A hospital hath been made ready to our hand, and if needs be we can pass a day or two here in safety, for I do not think the enemy will trouble us. I had already made my bivouac, when I heard Bayard on the road, and turned out to see if I could not better my fortune.”

Taking the horse by the bridle he led him a short distance down the road, and then turning abruptly up a path to the right through a small plantation of oaks and poplars, came upon an open space, lately used as a farm-yard, before a low thatched house built of stone and roughly plastered over. The roof had been fired at one end, but the oak rafters were still standing blackened and charred; at the other, where the thatch had not ignited, the roof was still intact. The door lay open, through which shone the glow of a hospitable fire that burned in the open hearth. Macpherson had fastened his cloak against the open window to shut in the light and prevent it being seen from the outside. The greater portion of the simple furniture still stood as the owner had left it--a high-backed oak chair drawn up to the hearth, the rough earthenware ranged upon a dresser against the wall, a bed, known as a settle, in a corner, and a small table roughly put together, under the window.

Macpherson helped his young friend off the horse and gently supported him into the kitchen. “We will look to your wound presently,” he said, “but first it behoves us to set our guard and prepare against the approach of the enemy. Howbeit they will not trouble us here; we may lie perdu for a week if needs must, though it were well we should be astir as soon as you think you can travel.”

“A day´s rest will set me on my feet, I doubt not,” said Gervase wearily, “but we cannot live without food, though the bullet they have bestowed on me has somewhat robbed me of an appetite.”

“Be not troubled on that score; I am too long campaigning not to have an eye to the commissariat, which matter is too often neglected by the great masters of strategy; ´tis half the art of war. There are several measures of meal in the chest yonder; there are some lean fowl roosting in the byre, and I heard the lowing of a cow in the little meadow at the foot of the orchard, though I cannot understand why her owner should have left her behind, unless, as I take to have been the case, his flitting was of the speediest. But why the rogues should have overlooked spoil so much to their mind passes my comprehension.”

“Perchance,” said Gervase, with a wan smile, “´tis vox et praeterea nihil.”

“A vox that runs on four legs, and will furnish us with some excellent beef when I have passed my sword across the throat of the same. I remember that such a beast furnished five of us with excellent, if scanty, sustenance for a month, until we fell out over the horns and hoofs, and two of us were removed thereafter from all need of earthly provender. But ´tis not likely that thou and I will come to such a pass,” he added, holding out his broad brown palm, while a gleam of kindly humour lighted up his rugged face.

“I am but fit for the hospital, and am like to be a heavy burden on your hands.”

“Tut, tut, man, never despair till the last shot is fired, and the garrison has hauled down its ensign in token of surrender. I had been a passable leech had I not rather cared to break heads than to mend them, whereby it seems to me the two trades are but complements the one of the other. In a day or two at the furthest you will be able to hold your own with any cut-throat rascal who cries for James Stuart. For that you may trust Ninian Macpherson.”

The old soldier had a good many sides to his character; as yet Gervase had only seen the praying and the fighting sides. He was now to see him as a loyal comrade, ready to cheer him with words of comfort; helpful as a brother, tender as a woman. In half an hour he had looked to his wound, which had opened afresh and bled considerably, had prepared a meal, and had stretched a bed for him along the hearth, which though rough and hard, was very acceptable in his present condition. Then Bayard was stabled at the further end of the building, and the day had already risen broad and clear with the singing of birds and the whisper of the soft spring wind, as Macpherson wrapped himself in his cloak and with his saddle under his head, gave himself up to sleep.

CHAPTER V.
OF A MAN´S MEMORY.

For upwards of a week Gervase was too ill to travel, though he rapidly recovered under the care that Macpherson bestowed upon him. No woman could have nursed him with more tenderness and solicitude. Every want that he had was anticipated, and during the tedium of the day the old soldier beguiled the time with stories of the camp and battle-field. He seemed to have no care or thought for his own comfort but waited assiduously on his wounded comrade with a simple kindness that touched Gervase deeply. The darker side of his character seemed to have disappeared completely; even his devotions he conducted in private, and it was only at Gervase´s request that he read from the little volume that he carried about with him continually.

They were left undisturbed in the farm-house, though they heard on two occasions the jingling of bridles, the clank of weapons, and the tramp of marching men upon the road, bound apparently for Londonderry; and upon one occasion they were upon the point of being discovered. Gervase was alone in the house when he heard the sound of voices without, and going to the window, he saw half a dozen dragoons drawing water from the well in the farm-yard. They evidently thought the house deserted, for they bestowed no attention upon it. At that moment Macpherson came swinging down the lane in the rear of the house, and was about to enter the yard when he caught sight of the steel head-pieces, and stopped short. Having filled their bottles, the fellows rejoined their comrades without suspecting the discovery they were on the point of making. Thereafter Macpherson was more careful, going out only when the twilight came down, and carefully avoiding the highway.

The chickens in the byre had gone the way of all flesh, and the cow in the meadow had been turned into wholesome beef, from which the old soldier concocted many a savoury stew. He was a rare hand at cooking, setting about the matter with sober and becoming earnestness, and mightily proud of his achievements therein. All the herbs of the field lent themselves to his purpose; he had studied their uses aforetime, and now he turned the knowledge to account. He knew something, too, of their medicinal qualities, and insisted with a solemn persistence on Gervase swallowing many nauseous draughts, which, indeed, the latter did rather from a feeling of good comradeship than from any liking for the dose. He greatly preferred the stories of Macpherson´s earlier days when he carried a halbert with Turenne, or one of the ballads--of which he had quite a store--which he crooned in a low tone with a solemn shaking of the head. They were all of battles, sieges, and warlike fortunes, and touched not at all upon the lighter passions. “Mary Ambree” was a great favourite of his, and another whose refrain ran thus:--

“Then be stout of heart when the field is set, and the smoke is hanging low,

And the pikeheads shine along the line to meet the advancing foe.”

But chiefly he preferred to sing from the psalms in Francis Rous´s version, especially those which speak of battle and vengeance, and the rugged metre and halting lines lost their homeliness, and were clothed with a fine vigour and glowed with inspired fervour as he followed the measure with the motion of his hand. So earnest he was, indeed, and so direct, with a touch of childlike simplicity, that Gervase was lost in continual wonder.