General Clavering seemed in no way disconcerted by the escape of Hope’s musketeers. He marched through the town with drums beating and colours flying, having very much the air of a victorious general. Lord Dunseveric stepped out of the graveyard and saluted him.

“Accept my congratulations,” he said, “on your timely arrival. You have released me and my son from what might have been an unpleasant and uncomfortable captivity.”

“I am glad,” said the general, “to have been of any service to your lordship. I trust you suffered no ill-usage at the hands of the rebels. If you did——-, well, we have an opportunity of settling our scores with them now.”

He smiled, but the look on his face was by no means pleasant to see.

“I received no ill-usage at all,” said Lord Dunseveric. “On the contrary, I was treated with as much courtesy as was possible under the circumstances. I would ask your forbearance towards any prisoners you may take, and your kindness to the wounded. There are many of them in the churchyard.”

“You may be sure that your lordship’s recommendation shall have due weight with me.”

The words were civil, but Lord Dunseveric detected a sneer in the voice which uttered them. He was not well pleased.

“I trust, sir,” he said coldly, “that I am to take your words literally and not interpret them in accordance with the tone in which they are spoken.”

“If you want plain speaking, Lord Dunseveric,” said the general, “I shall deal with the rebels, whole or wounded, as rebels deserve. I mean to make these Antrim farmers as tame as gelt cats before I’ve done with them.”

He beckoned to an officer of his staff, and gave some orders. In a few minutes several companies of mounted yeomen and dragoons trotted out of the town.

“It is a good job,” said General Clavering, “that the rebels succeeded in getting away. If we had cut off their retreat we might have had some hard fighting. There is nothing nastier than tackling a rat in a corner. It is a much simpler business to cut up flying men. All beaten troops straggle and desert. Irregulars, operating in their own country, simply melt away after a defeat. They sneak off home, hide their arms in hay stacks, and pretend they never left their ploughs. I know their ways, and, by God, I’ll track them. I’ll ferret them out.”

General Clavering’s estimate of the conduct of irregular troops had something in it. Even James Hope’s influence failed to keep his men from straggling. They had fought well while there was any chance of victory, but war was strange to them. The horrors of wounds and death, the bitter disappointment of defeat, the hopeless outlook of the future, depressed them. Their homes were near at hand. Within a few miles of them were the familiar cottages, the waiting, anxious wives, the little children with eager faces. There was always the chance for each man that he might escape unknown, that his share in the rising might be forgotten. One and another dropped out of the ranks, slipped across the fields, sought to get home again along by-paths. It was not possible for Hope to delay his march in order to reason with his men—to hearten and steady them. He knew that the enemy would be swift in pursuit, that he must press on if he were to meet M’Cracken at Donegore. He did what he could. He went to and fro through the ranks, speaking quiet, brave words. Donald Ward, cool and determined as ever, talked of the American war.

“You’re young at the work, yet,” he said to the disheartened men. “Wait till you’ve been beaten half a dozen times. It was only by being beaten, and standing up to our beatings, that we won in the end. I remember when I was with General Greene in the Carolinas——”

The men listened to him and listened to Hope. Their spirit began to return to them. The ranks closed up. The march grew more regular, but the straggling did not altogether cease. The lure of home, the thought of rest after struggle, was too strong for some of them. Neal marched near the rear of the column. He had no thought of deserting a beaten side, of trying to save himself, but he knew that he could not go on for very long, and that he would not be able to reach Donegore. The boy whom he supported leaned heavily on him, until he almost had to carry him. The strain became more and more severe. He gave his musket to a comrade to carry for him. He lifted the boy upon his back and staggered on.

After nearly an hour’s march Hope called a halt. Half a mile behind them on the road was a body of dragoons advancing rapidly. Hope drew his men up across the road, the few pikemen who were with him kneeling in front, the musketeers behind them. The dragoons came on at a trot. Then a word of command was given by their officer, and they galloped forward. Hope waited, and only at the last moment gave the word to fire. Horses and men fell. The charge was checked. A few staggered forward against the pikes. Most turned and fled. A wild cheer burst from Hope’s men. Without waiting for orders they rushed after the retreating dragoons. The misery of defeat was forgotten for a moment. They tasted the joy of victory again. But the horsemen rallied, turned on their pursuers, and rode through them, cutting with their sabres. Neal, who had sat down on the roadside after firing his musket, saw Hope trying to recall his men, saw Donald Ward far down the road gather a few pikemen round him and stand at bay. The dragoons, who had had enough of charging pikes, dismounted, unslung their carbines, and fired. Neal saw his uncle fall. Hope reformed his men and bade them load again, but the dragoons had no taste for another charge. Their officer was wounded. They turned and rode back towards Antrim.

Hope gave the word to march again, but Neal could carry the boy no more.

“I can’t do it,” he said. “We must stay here and take our chance.”

“Go on,” said the boy, “go you on. I’ve been a sore trouble to you the day, have done with me now.”

“I will not leave you,” said Neal, “we’ll take our chance together.”

He watched Hope’s little force disappear up the road. Then he dragged the boy through the hedge into the meadow beyond it, and lay down in the deep grass.

“Is your leg very bad?” said Neal.

“It’s no that bad, only I canna walk. It’s bled a power, my stocking’s soaked with the blood. Maybe if we could tie it up better we might stop it and I’d get strength to go again.”

Neal dragged the lining from his coat, and tore it into strips. He cut the stocking from the boy’s leg with his pocket-knife, and bandaged a long flesh wound as best he could.

“Rest now,” he said, “and after a while we’ll try and get on a bit.”

They lay in the deep, cool grass. There was pure air round them, and they drew deep breaths of it into throats and lungs parched by the fumes of sulphurous smoke. A delicious silence wrapped them, folded them as if in a tender, kind embrace. A faint breeze stirred the grass, waved the white plumes of the meadow sweet, shook the blue vetch flowers and the purple spears of lusmor. In the hedge the reddening blooms of faded hawthorn still lingered. The honeysuckle fragrance filled the air. Groups of merry-faced dog-daisies nodded in the ditch, and round their stalks were buttercups, and beyond them the rich yellow of marsh marigolds. Neal fancied himself awaking from some hideous nightmare. It became impossible to believe in the reality of the battle, the fierce passion of it, the smoke, the sweat, the wounds, the cries. He was lulled into delicious ease. Rest was for the time the supreme good of life. His eyes closed drowsily. He was back in Dunseveric again, and in his ears the noise of a gentle summer sea.

He was roused by a touch of his companion’s hand.

“I’m afraid there’s a wheen o’ sogers coming up the road.”

Neal rose to his hands and knees and peered cautiously through the hedge. He saw mounted men riding slowly along the road from the direction of Antrim. They were still about half a mile off. Every now and then they halted and peered about them. They rode as if they feared an ambush, or as if they sought something or some one in the fields at each side of the road.

“They’re yeomen,” said Neal, “and they’re coming towards us. We must lie as still as we can. Perhaps they may pass without seeing us.”

“They willna,” said the boy, “they’ll see us. We’ll be kilt at last.”

Neal peered again. The yeomen had reached the spot where Donald and his pikemen had made their stand. They halted and dismounted to examine, perhaps to plunder, the bodies. Neal could see their uniforms plainly. He shivered. They were men of the Kilulta yeomenry, of Captain Twinely’s company.

“Neal Ward, there’s something I want to say to you before they catch us.”

“Well, what is it? Speak at once. They’ll be coming on soon, and then it won’t do to be talking.”

“Ay, but you mustn’t look at me while I tell you.”

Neal turned away and waited. He was impatient of this making of mysteries in a moment of extreme peril.

The words were sung very softly, but Neal recognised the voice at once. He turned at the second line and gazed in open-eyed astonishment at the singer.

“Ay, it’s just me, just Peg MacIlrea.” She smiled up at him as she spoke.

“But, Peg, how could you do it? Peg, if I’d only known. Why did you come?”

“It wasna right. It wasna maidenly. If that’s what you want to be saying to me, Neal Ward. The other lassie wouldna have done it. Maybe not. But a’ the lads I knew well were turning out and going to the fight, and what was to hinder a poor, wild lassie, that nobody cared about, from going, too? Ay, and being there at the break, the sore, sore break, in Antrim town?”

Neal heard the tramp of the yeomen’s horses on the road. He heard their voices, their laughter, their oaths.

“Neal,” said Peg, “you’re a brave lad and a kind. I aye said it of ye from thon night when you throttled the dragoon. Do you mind it? D’you mind how I bit him?”

The yeomen were almost opposite their hiding-place now.

“Neal,” whispered Peg, “will ye no gie me a kiss? The other lassie wouldna begrudge it to me now, I’m thinking.”

He bent over her, put his arms round her neck, raised her head, and kissed her lips.

“Hush, Peg, hush,” he whispered.

“There’s a musket on the road in front of you, sergeant.” Neal recognised Captain Twinely’s voice. “There might be some damned croppy lurking in the meadow there. Dismount and beat him up. Hey! but we’ll have some sport hunting him across country if he runs. The earths are all stopped. We’ll have a fine burst, and kill the vermin in the end.”

Neal stood upright.

“I surrender to you, Captain Twinely. I surrender as a prisoner of war.”

It seemed to him the only chance of saving Peg MacIlrea. It was just possible that the yeomen would be satisfied with one prisoner.

“By God,” said the captain, “if it isn’t that damned young Ward again. Come, croppy, come, croppy, I’ll give you a run for your life. I’ll give you two minutes start by my watch, and I’ll hunt you like a fox. It’s a better offer than you deserve.”

Neal stood still, and made no answer.

“To him, sergeant, prick him with your sword. Set him running.”

The sergeant came blundering through the hedge. Neal stepped forward to meet him, in the hope of keeping Peg concealed, but the sergeant caught sight of her.

“There’s another of them, Captain, lying in the grass.”

“Rout him out, rout him out,” said Captain Twinely, “we’ll run the two. We’ll have sport.”

The sergeant stepped forward and kicked Peg. Neal flew at the man and knocked him down.

“Ho, ho,” laughed Captain Twinely, “he’s a game cub. Get through the hedge, men, and take a hold of him. We’ll hunt the other fellow first.”

“The other seems to be wounded, sir,” said one of the men. “He has his leg bandaged.”

“Then slit his throat,” said the captain, “he can’t run, and I’ve no use for wounded men.”

Neal, his arms tightly gripped by two troopers, made a last appeal.

“It’s a girl,” he said, “would you murder a girl?”

Captain Twinely rolled in his saddle with mirth.

“A vixen,” he cried. “Damn your soul, Neal Ward, but you’re a sly one. To think of a true blue Presbyterian like you, a minister’s son, God rot you, lying and cuddling a girl in a field. A vixen, by God. Strip her, sergeant, till we see if he’s telling the truth.”

Neal, with the strength of a furious man, tore himself from the grasp of his guards. He plunged through the hedge and leaped at Captain Twinely. He gripped the horse’s mane with his left hand, and made a wild snatch at the throat of the man above him in the saddle. A blow on the face from the hilt of Twinely’s sword threw him to the ground. He fell half stunned. He heard Peg shriek wildly, and then lost consciousness of what was happening.

He was roused again by a prod of a sword, and bidden to stand up. His hands were tied and the end of the rope made fast to the stirrup iron of one of the trooper’s horses.

“We’re going to take you back into Antrim,” said Captain Twinely. “I don’t deny that I’d rather deal with you here myself, but you’re a fifty-pounder, my lad, and my men won’t hear of losing their share of the reward. It’ll come to the same thing in the end, any way. Clavering isn’t the man to be squeamish about hanging a rebel. Mount men and march.”

“Maybe the young cub would like to see his lass before he leaves her. Her face is a bonny one for kissing now.”

Neal shuddered, and turned sick. Beyond the hedge in the trampled grass, among the meadow sweet and the loose strife, lay unnamable horror. He shut his eyes, dreading lest he should be forced to look, but the suggestion was too brutal even for Captain Twinely.

“Shut your devil’s mouth,” he said to the sergeant, “isn’t what you’ve done enough for you? If the croppy that came on you at Donegore had broken your skull, instead of just cracking it, he would have rid the country of the biggest blackguard in it.”

“Thon’s fine talk,” growled the sergeant, “but who bid us strip the wench? Is bloody Twinely turning chicken-hearted at the last?”

Captain Twinely did not choose to hear the sergeant’s words, or the grumbling of the men around him. He put his troop in motion, and trotted off towards Antrim. Neal, running and stumbling, dazed, utterly weary and dejected, was dragged with them.

General Clavering sat at dinner in a private room of the Massereene Arms. He had with him Colonel Durham and several of the officers who had commanded troops during the battle. The landlord, obsequious and frightened, waited on the party himself. He had the best food he could get on the table, and the best wine from the cellar was ready for his guests. In the public room a larger party was gathered—yeomanry officers, captains, and lieutenants of the royal troops, and a few of the country squires who had ridden into the town after the fighting was over. Lord Dunseveric and Maurice were in the room where they had slept the night before. Lord O’Neill lay on one of two beds. Life was in him still, but he was mortally wounded. Lord Dunseveric sat beside him, holding his hand, and speaking to him occasionally. Maurice was at the window. The laughter of the party in the room below reached them, and the noisy talk of the troops who thronged the streets. Jests, curses, snatches of song, and calls for wine mingled with the groans which his extreme pain wrung from the wounded man and the solemn, quiet words about strength and courage which Lord Dunseveric spoke.

A party of horsemen clattered up the street, and halted at the inn door. They had a prisoner with them—a wretched-looking man, with torn clothes, a bruised, bloody face, and hair matted with sweat and grime. But Maurice recognised him. It was Neal Ward. He turned to his father.

“A company of yeomen has just marched in and they have Neal Ward with them. Their officer, I think it was that blackguard Twinely, has asked for General Clavering, and entered the inn.”

“Very well, Maurice.” Lord Dunseveric turned to the wounded man. “I must leave you for a few minutes, my friend; keep quiet and be brave. I shall be back again. Maurice will stay with you, and get you anything you want.”

“Where are you going, Eustace?”

“I’m going to the general, to this Clavering man. He has a prisoner now whom I want to help if I can—the young man I told you about, who saved me from being piked in the street to-day. I would to God he could have saved you, too.”

“That’s past praying for now,” said Lord O’Neill, “but you’re right, Eustace, you’re right. Save him from the hangman if you can. There’s been blood enough shed to-day—Irish blood, Irish blood. There should be no more of it.”

Lord Dunseveric entered the room where General Clavering and his officers sat at dinner. Captain Twinely stood at the end of the table, and Lord Dunseveric heard the orders he received.

“Put him into the market-house to-night. I’ll hang that fellow in the morning, whatever I do with the rest.”

“The market-house is full, sir,” said Captain Twinely, “the officer in command says he can receive no more prisoners.”

“Damn it, man, shut him up somewhere else, then, but don’t stand there talking to me and interrupting my dinner. Here, landlord, have you an empty cellar?”

“Your worship, my lord general, there’s only the wine cellar; but it’s very nigh on empty now.”

A shout of laughter greeted the remark.

“Fetch out the rest of the wine that’s in it,” said the general, “we’ll make a clean sweep of it. Or, stay, leave the poor devil one bottle of decent claret. He’s to be hanged tomorrow morning. He may have a sup of comfort to-night.”

Captain Twinely saluted and withdrew.

“General Clavering,” said Lord Dunseveric, “I ask you to spare this young man’s life. I will make myself personally responsible for his safe keeping, and undertake to send him out of the country at the first opportunity.”

“It can’t be done, Lord Dunseveric. I am sorry to disoblige in a small matter, but it can’t be done.”

“I ask it as a matter of justice,” said Lord Dunseveric. “The man saved my life and my son’s life to-day in the street at the risk of his own. He deserves to be spared.”

“I’ve given my answer.”

Lord Dunseveric hesitated. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to turn and leave the room. Then, with an evident effort, he spoke again.

“I ask this man’s life as a personal favour. I am not one who begs often from the Government, or who asks favours easily, but I ask this.”

“Anything else, my lord, anything in reason, but this I will not grant. This young man has a bad record—a damned bad record. He was mixed up with the hanging of a yeoman in the north———”

“He was not,” said Lord Dunseveric. “I hanged that man.”

“You hanged him,” said General Clavering, Angrily, “and yet you come here asking favours of me. But there’s more, plenty more, against this Neal Ward. He tried to choke a dragoon in the street of Belfast, he took part in a daring capture of some ammunition for the rebels’ use, he helped to murder a loyal man at Donegore last night, he was in arms to-day. There’s not half a dozen deserve hanging more richly than he does, and hanged he’ll be. Never you fret yourself about him, Lord Dunseveric; sit down here and drink a glass with us. We’re going to make a night of it.”

“I beg leave to decline your invitation,” said Lord Dunseveric, stiffly. “I have asked for mercy and been refused. I have asked for justice and been refused. I have begged a personal favour and been refused. I bid you good night. If I thought you and your companions were capable of any feeling of common decency I should request you to restrain your mirth a little out of respect to Lord O’Neill, who lies dying within two doors of you. But I should probably only provide you with fresh food for your laughter if I did.”

He bowed coldly, and left the room. The company sat silent for a minute or two. No man cared to look at his neighbour. Lord Dunseveric’s last words had been unpleasant ones to listen to. Besides, Lord Dunseveric was a man of some importance. It is impossible to tell how far the influence of a great territorial lord may stretch. Promotion is sometimes stopped mysteriously by influences which are not very easily baffled. There were colonels at the table who wanted to be generals, and generals who wanted commands. There was a feeling that it might have been wiser to speak more civilly to Lord Dunseveric.

General Clavering himself broke the silence.

“These damned Irishmen are all rebels at heart,” he said. “The gentry want their combs cut as much as the croppies. I’m not going to be insulted at my own table by a cursed Irishman even if he does put lord before his name. I’ll write a report about this Lord Dunseveric. I’ll make him smart with a sharp fine. You heard him boast, gentlemen, boast before a company of men holding His Majesty’s commission, that he hanged a soldier in discharge of his duty.”

“A yeoman,” said Colonel Durham, “and some of the yeomen deserve hanging.”

“God Almighty!” said Clavering, “are you turning rebel, too? I don’t care whether a man deserves it or not, I’ll not have the king’s troops hanged by filthy Irishmen.”

He looked round the table for applause. He got none. General Clavering had boasted too loudly—had gone too far. It was well known that in the existing state of Irish politics Pitt and the English ministers would probably prefer cashiering General Clavering to offending a man like Lord Dunseveric. There were plenty of generals to be got. A great Irish landowner, a man of ability, a peer who commanded the respect of all classes in the country, might be a serious hindrance to the carrying out of certain carefully-matured schemes. General Clavering attempted to laugh the matter off.

“But this,” he said, “is over wine. Men say more than they mean when they are engaged in emptying mine host’s cellar. Come, gentlemen, another bottle. We must hang the damned young rebel, but we’ll do him this much grace—we’ll drink a happy despatch to him, a short wriggle at the end of his rope, and a pleasant journey to a warmer climate.”

Lord Dunseveric returned to his room and sat down again beside Lord O’Neill. He said nothing to Maurice.

“Well,” said Lord O’Neill, “will they spare him?”

“No.”

“More blood, more blood. God help us, Eustace, our lot is cast in evil times. Would it be any use if I spoke, if I wrote! I think I could manage to write.”

“None, my friend, none. Keep quiet, you have enough to bear without taking my troubles and my friend’s troubles on your shoulders.”

For a long time there was silence in the room, broken only by an occasional groan from the wounded man and a word or two murmured low by Lord Dunseveric. Maurice took his place at the window again. He understood that his father’s intercession for Neal had failed, but he was not hopeless. He did not know what was to be said or done next, but he waited confidently. It was not often that Lord Dunseveric was turned back from anything he set his hand to do. It was likely that if he wanted Neal Ward’s release the release would be accomplished whatever General Clavering might think or say.

The evening darkened slowly. Lord O’Neill dropped into an uneasy dose. Lord Dunseveric rose, and crossed the room to Maurice.

“You heard what I said, son? They are to hang Neal Ward to-morrow.”

Maurice nodded.

“I can do no more. Besides, I am tired. I want to rest.”

Maurice looked at his father in surprise. He could not recollect ever having heard before of his being tired or wanting rest.

“I shall sleep here in your bed, Maurice, so as to be at hand if Lord O’Neill wants me. You must go down to the public room of the inn or to the tap-room. You can get James, the groom, to keep you company if you like. You cannot go to bed to-night, you understand. You must sit by the fire till those roisterers have drunk themselves to sleep. James will keep you company, There will be sound sleep for many in this inn to-night, but none for poor Neal, who’s down in some cellar, nor the sentry they post over him, nor for you, Maurice, nor for James. Maybe after all Neal won’t be hanged in the morning. That’s all I have to say to you, my son. A man in my position can’t say more or do more. You understand?”

“I understand,” said Maurice, “and, by God, they’ll not hang——”

“Hush! hush! I don’t want to listen to you. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. Good night to you, Maurice.”

With a curious half smile on his face Lord Dun-severic shook his son’s hand. It appeared that he had the same kind of confidence in Maurice that Maurice had in him. Like father, like son. When these St. Clairs of Dunseveric wanted anything they generally got it in the end. And none of the race of them had ever been over-scrupulous in dealing with such obstacles as stood in their way, or particularly careful about what those glorified conventions that men call law might have to say about the methods by which they achieved their ends.