The sky was bluish black with heavy masses of clouds, but through a rift in the west showed a bright star, by which Hugh guessed roughly it must be within two hours of dawn. Quickening his pace to a run at that, he came into the shelter of the park, where it was all black, and he went forward blindly, with one arm thrust up to guard his face. Now and again he had through the tree-tops a distant sight of the sky, and by it took his directions; but for the most part he stumbled on haphazard, though at a brisk pace, for the night was passing rapidly. When at length he crushed his way through a thicket to the edge of the brook that marked the bounds of the park, the bright western star had sunk out of sight behind the trees.

Beyond the brook he hurried through a tract of woodland, where he bore to the southward to keep clear of the Kingsford highway and a farmstead that lay back from it. He came out in a cornfield, where the blades felt damp against his face as he forced a rustling passage through, and after that climbed over a wall into the open fields. There were no more houses to avoid before he reached the village, so with less caution he pressed on at a good jog-trot. For the night was waning, and Kingsford was still to come.

An ominous pale streak showed in the east before him as he climbed the swell of land that cut off sight of the village. Fearing lest his figure show up too distinctly against the sky line, he made for a clump of bushes at the summit, and had just got within their shadow when he caught the sound of hoof-beats. Dropping flat he dragged himself in under the bushes, where, peering out between the leaves, he saw the black bulk of a horseman ride along the slope below him. A little to Hugh’s left he pulled up and called to another rider a challenge that reached the boy’s ears quite clearly, then turned and came pacing back.

They had set a mounted guard about the town, then; and with that Hugh told himself he must slip past it and quickly, too, or the dawn would be upon him. But first he waited for the horseman’s return, to know what was the time between his passing and repassing, and while he waited he strained his eyes into the dark to get the lay of the land. At the foot of the rising ground was a hollow, he remembered, and across it, on the higher land, stood an irregular line of three cottages, beyond which ran a lane that led by the side wall of the churchyard. Very likely troops were lodged about the cottages now, perhaps even more patrols in the hollow, but all he could see was the black depths beneath him and the outline of the nearest cottage. Then he heard the sound of hoofs loud again, as once more the horseman on guard rode by below. Hugh could make out his form far too clearly; dawn was coming, and he durst stay no longer.

So soon as the man had turned and paced a rod on his journey back, Hugh crawled from beneath the bushes and, rolling noiselessly, creeping on hands and knees, made his way down the hillside. He remembered afterward the feel of the moist grass in his hands, the look of the mottled dark sky and the faint stars, and how at a distant hail in the village he pressed flat on the cold ground. But at last he crawled across a more level space he judged the bridle path, and scrambled down into the depth of the hollow, where a chilly mist set him shivering. As he lay outstretched, resting his weary arms a moment, he heard up above him the horseman ride by.

Now that he was within the lines of the patrol only caution and quickness were necessary. Still on hands and knees, he dragged himself slowly up the hillside, bearing ever to the south to get behind the cottages, yet not daring to venture too far, lest he come upon another line of guards. As he approached the first cottage he rose half erect and tried a short run, but the bark of a dog made him drop flat in the grass, where he lay trembling. Next instant, realizing that it was better to push on, whatever befell, he sprang up and made a dash to the cover of a hedge behind the second cottage. For now the protection of the night had nearly left him; he could see clearly the lattices of the cottage, the whitish line of highway beyond it, and others might see him as well. But as he crept forward, keeping to the shelter of the hedge, he looked up, and against the gray sky saw what gave him courage. Above the farther cottage rose the church tower, and from it stood up a staff on which fluttered a red flag with a splotch of gold upon it; Captain Gwyeth and his men still were holding out.

With renewed hope Hugh worked his way past the hedge to the shelter of an outbuilding, not a rod from the lane that ran white beneath the lich wall. He could see the church clearly now, the scowling small windows, the close side door, and the gravestones on the slope below. There was little prospect of welcome, he was reckoning anxiously, as he lay crouched against the outbuilding, when suddenly he heard a cry: “Stand, there!” Off to his right in the lane he beheld a Roundhead sentinel halted with his piece levelled.

Springing to his feet Hugh dashed across the grass plot to the lane. On the left he heard hoof-beats, then a cry: “Shoot him down!” A bullet struck the sand at his feet; he heard men running, and another shot. He heard, too, the crunch of crisp weeds beneath his boots as he crashed into the overgrown tangle beyond the lane. He felt the rough stones on the top of the wall, then he had flung himself clear across it, and was struggling up the slope among the graves. His boots were heavy and hampered him, and his breath seemed gone. He looked up to the dead windows of the church and tried to cry: “King’s men! To the rescue!” but what sound he could make was lost in the din behind him. A bullet struck on a headstone just to one side; then of a sudden came a numbing pain in his left arm. He staggered, stumbled blindly a pace; then the sky was rolled up like a gray scroll, the stars were dancing before his eyes, and he was down flat upon the ground. Lifting his head dizzily he had a dim sight of the lane below, men swarming from the cottages, and one he saw leap the wall and come running toward him. Hugh’s head dropped back on the ground; he saw the sky pale above and waited for the butt of his pursuer’s musket to crash down upon him, and prayed it might not be long to wait.

They were still firing, he heard; and he heard, too, quick footsteps behind him and a man breathing fast. He was swung up bodily from the ground, and there came a voice he knew: “Your arm round my neck, so. Have no fear, Hugh; I’ve got you safe.”

There was firing still and faint cheering; the rest darkness; but before it closed in on him Hugh had one blurred glimpse of a strong, blue-eyed face above him, and he knew it was his father who held him.

The light returned to Hugh in a dim and unfamiliar place; high above him, as he lay on his back, he had sight of a vaulted roof full of shadows. His head felt heavy and dazed, so he did not care to stir or speak, just closed his eyes again. There had been faces about him, he remembered vaguely, and he felt no surprise when he heard a voice that was unmistakably Ridydale’s: “He’s coming round, sir.”

They were pressing a wet cloth to his forehead, Hugh judged, and his head was aching so he tried to thrust up his arm to stop them. “Let—me—alone,” he forced the words out faintly, and opened his eyes. It was his father who was bathing his head, he saw, and remembering what brought him thither his mind went back to the formal message he had framed on the way from Tamworth. “Captain Gwyeth, Sir William Pleydall bade me deliver word, he will send you relief; it shall come to-morrow.”

“Saxon, take that word to Lieutenant von Holzberg,” Captain Gwyeth’s voice came curtly. “Spread it through the troop that help is coming.—Spare farther speaking now, Hugh; I understand.”

Hugh closed his eyes heavily and lay quiet. He felt a wet cloth tied round his head, and then he winced through all his body as a knife ripped halfway up his sleeve. “Thank Heaven, ’tis only a clean flesh wound,” he heard the captain say. “Nay, Jack, I’ll hold him. Do you bandage it.”

Hugh felt himself lifted up till his head rested against the captain’s shoulder. Half opening his eyes he had a confused sight down the nave of the church, only now it seemed unfamiliar, for the pews were torn from their places and piled up against the great entrance door. Up and down by the walls men were pacing, and some lay silent on the floor of the choir, and some he heard groaning as they lay. Then he closed his eyes and clinched his teeth, for his arm was aching rarely, so the lightest touch made him shrink. He wondered if the bandages they were putting on would never end, and if he could keep on biting down all sign of pain, when at last Ridydale spoke: “There, sir, ’tis done the best I could. If we only had water to wash the hurt properly!”

That suggested to Hugh that his mouth was dry, so he said under his breath: “I am thirsty.”

“If there be a drop of water in the place, fetch it,” Captain Gwyeth bade; and a moment later Hugh’s head was lifted up and a cup set to his lips. It was brackish water, and very little at that; he swallowed it with one gulp, and opened his eyes to look for more. “Nay, that’s the last,” the captain spoke out. “’Tis an ill lodging you have taken with us. I would to God you were elsewhere!”

With the scant power of his returning strength, Hugh tried to move clear of the arm that was about him. “I had hoped, this time, you would not be sorry to see me,” he broke out, in a voice that quavered in spite of himself.

He heard the captain give a sharp order to Ridydale to be off, and he felt it was to save the dignity which had almost slipped from him. He put his head down on the captain’s shoulder again. “Father, you are glad to have me, after all,” he said softly.

He felt the sudden tension of the arm that drew him closer, though when Captain Gwyeth spoke, his tone was of the driest: “After the trouble I’ve had to get hold of you, do you not think ’tis reasonable I should be glad?” Then he cut short all response with a hasty: “Lie you down here now and be quiet. You’ve been knocked just enough for you to make a fool of yourself if you try to talk.”

Hugh grinned weakly, and suffered his father to put him down with his head upon a folded cloak. “I’ll send Ridydale to have an eye to you,” the captain said in a low tone, “and if anything happens, I’ll be near.” Then he rose and tramped away down the nave of the church, but Hugh, watching him through half-shut eyes, saw him halt to glance back.

After that Hugh lay a long time in a heavy, half-waking state, where he listened to the slow pacing up and down of those about him who kept guard, and to the quicker step of men who, on other errands, hastened across the reËchoing church; he heard men shout orders across the aisles or nearer to him speak in curt monosyllables; and he heard, too, all the time, the labored groaning of one who must lie somewhere near. Then there were moments when, losing all sounds, he drifted off into an unknown world, where he lived over again the happenings of the last hours, and struggled in the water of the Arrow, and fought Oldesworth’s troopers, and made the last run through the churchyard under the Roundhead fire.

It was a relief to come back to consciousness and find himself lying comfortably on the floor of the choir with the dark roof far above him. A glint of purple sunlight from a broken window wavered on the ground beside him, and, forcing his mind to follow one train of thought, he contrived at last to reason out that it must be past noon. Pulling himself up on his sound arm, he tried to look about the church, but the effort made his head ache so he was glad to lie down. But he had got sight of Ridydale, who stood on a bench beneath one of the tall windows in speech with a trooper, and after a moment’s rest he called the corporal by name.

Ridydale stepped down, carabine in hand, and came to Hugh’s side. “Is there anything you’ll be wanting, sir?” he began.

“Yes,” Hugh replied, “I’d take it kindly of you if you’d just tell me what hit me that time.”

Ridydale grinned and settled himself close by on the steps of the altar with his carabine across his knees. “’Tis all very simple, Master Hugh,” he explained. “They wasted a deal of lead trying to wing you,—they’re clumsy marksmen, those Roundhead cowherds. Somehow, by good luck, they contrived to shoot you in the arm. I take it you stumbled on one of those sunken stones, then, for you went down and broke your head against another gravestone.”

“Was that it?” Hugh asked, in some mortification.

“And then the colonel stepped out and fetched you in. We had sight of you, those that were keeping the west windows, as you came down to the lane. ‘It’s Hugh,’ says the colonel, sharplike; ‘unbar the door.’ Soon as we had the barrier tore down, and we made short work of it, he out after you. ’Twas a most improper thing, too,” Ridydale grumbled; “captain of a troop to risk himself under a fire like that for a mere volunteer. When there were others ready enough to go out. Maybe you were too flustered, sir, to note what a pretty shot I had at the knave who followed you over the wall?”

Hugh confessed he had missed that sight.

“Ay, ’twas not a shot to be ashamed of,” the corporal resumed, pulling his mustache with much satisfaction. “’Twas brisk give and take we were having then, sir. The colonel had a bullet through the skirts of his coat ere he got you within the church. Ay, ’twas improper conduct of him. What would have become of us all, tell me now, had he been hurt?”

“Why, just the same that will become of you now he is not hurt,” the captain struck in crisply as he came up. “Tell me, Hugh, did it commend itself to the sapience of Sir William Pleydall to say what time Saturday we might look for relief?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps it does not matter to him whether it gets here at sunrise or sunset,” the captain remarked dispassionately. “It makes a mighty deal of difference to us, though.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and stood staring up at the broken window where the sun came through. In the strong light Hugh noted how haggard his face looked about the eyes, and how three days of neglect showed in the red-gold beard. But when the captain turned from the window there was a laugh in his eyes. “Jack,” he addressed Ridydale, who was standing at attention, “what devilry do you suppose Tommy Oldesworth is at now that he keeps so quiet?”

“Shall I try a shot to stir him up, sir?” the corporal proffered.

“Not for your life, Jack. Go rest you, while they let us.”

As Ridydale strode off, Captain Gwyeth, with a soberer look, set himself down in his place. “You ought to know, Hugh, that we’re in a bad way,” he spoke out in a brusque, low tone.

“There’s help coming,” Hugh answered stoutly, and dragged himself up on one elbow so he could rest against the steps beside his father.

“Ay, but it must be quick,” the captain replied, “for Oldesworth is hot upon us. He came hither this morning under the white flag to advise us surrender to his mercy ere he batter down our walls.”

“Ordnance?” Hugh asked blankly.

“He may bring it from Warwick. Our only hope is that he may be so long in the bringing it— Well, he’s bravely worried that you got in to us, else he’d not have offered us terms. He’s troubled about that relief; and, faith, I’m troubled, too. The men will hold out another twenty-four hours in the hope, but we’ve had neither food nor drink since yesterday afternoon. And we are scant thirty men now, and there are six with disabling wounds besides.”

“Couldn’t I make one in the fighting?” Hugh ventured hesitatingly. “I might not be able to steady a carabine with one hand, but I could load—”

“Then we could not use you long,” the captain said, with a dry laugh. “That’s the crowning curse of it all, Hugh; there’s not above three bullets left to a man.”

Hugh gazed down the dismantled church, where the pews were all turned to sorry defences and the windows were shattered with the rebel balls. He noted, too, the set, weary faces of the nearest men on guard, and something of the hopelessness of the whole position came home to him. His face must have shown his thought, for the captain suddenly put a hand on his shoulder. “That’s why I’m sorry you are here,” he said briefly.

“I care not for that,” Hugh choked, “but if they do not bring aid in time,—Peregrine said they would hang you.”

“Peregrine?” the captain queried. “Tut, tut! He should be old enough by now to know a gentleman does not let himself be taken and hanged while he has weapons in his hands. Though I knew from the start ’twould be a fight to the death if ever I came sword to sword with the Oldesworths.” There was a space of silence, then he broke out: “I suppose they taught you I was a scoundrel, did they not?”

“At the last, yes, my grandfather said it,” Hugh admitted, “but while my mother lived she told me only good of you.”

“Then, she had forgiven me?” the captain asked in a low tone.

Hugh’s eyes were not on him, but straying across the church to where the great Oldesworth pew had stood; even at that distance he seemed to read on the tablet set in the wall the name, “Ruth Gwyeth.” “She did not hold there was anything to forgive; she said the wrong had all been hers,” he broke out; “she said you were the best and noblest gentleman that ever lived, and far too good for her.”

“Poor lass, poor lass!” the captain said under his breath; he was sitting with one hand shielding his eyes, Hugh noted, but of a sudden he looked down at the boy and spoke curtly: “So you came seeking me, believing all that, and then I thrust you out of doors?”

Hugh nodded without looking at his father; he was conscious of a queer, shamed feeling, as if he had been himself at fault.

“Yet you stood up before that hound Bellasis and took that hack in the face for me. I used you like a villain, Hugh,” the captain blurted out; “even Ruth could not forgive me for it. But, lad, if we come alive from this, I’ll strive to make you forget it.”

“I am forgetting now,” Hugh said honestly. “And if you’d looked as if you wanted me, I’d ha’ come to you before.”

“I did want you. And you waited for me to look it, did you? I’m thinking we’re something alike, lad.” He put his arm about the boy’s neck with a sudden, half rough caress. “Turner said you had as decent a courage as most lads and a bit more sense,” he broke out. “Faith, I believe him. And if we come through here you shall have a chance to show it to every man in the troop, yes, to the same fellows that flogged you.”

Hugh edged a little nearer his father. “I’d do my best to show them; I’d like the chance,” he answered; then added thoughtfully, “Though, after all, I am not sorry for that flogging. If I’d not known some hard knocks already, they might have been able to frighten me yesterday.”

There he stopped, unavailingly, for the captain pounced down on him and did not rest till he got the whole history of the last hours. Hugh put all the emphasis he could on Master Oldesworth and on Lois, but Peregrine and Thomas Oldesworth were dragged in at the captain’s urgence, and the captain’s face grew ominous. “’Twas not clean dealings on Tom Oldesworth’s part,” he said betwixt his teeth. “Well, when it comes to the last we’ll remember it against him.”

With that he got up to go about his business, but presently strode back with a cushion. “Put that under your head, Hugh,” he bade, and taking up the cloak helped the boy wrap it round him. “You’ll find it cold here in the church as soon as the sun goes down,” he explained. “Try to sleep, though; get what strength you can against to-morrow.”

After he had gone, Hugh settled himself to sleep, but it took a time, for his arm ached relentlessly, and his head was hot and his mouth dry. Moment after moment he lay staring down the dusky church, where the twilight was filling in, and harked to the slow step of those on guard. The shades had gathered dark, and his eyes were closing, when he realized that the man who had been groaning in the transept was quiet now. He guessed what that meant, and something of the ugliness of death came home to him. He sat up eagerly to look for some companionship, then felt ashamed and lay down again to listen and listen once more, and think on Peregrine’s threats and Thomas Oldesworth’s set, implacable face. When he went to sleep at last his kinsmen followed him, even through his dreams.

Dreams, recollections, of a sudden all were blotted out. He was sitting up, he knew, in a place that save for two feeble flickers of light was pitchy black, he heard men running and shouting, and, over all and subduing all, he heard a crash, crash which he judged bewilderedly to be of cannonading. The roof must fall soon, he feared, and scrambling to his feet he ran forward into the darkness and tumult. Above the uproar he caught Captain Gwyeth’s voice, steady and distinct: “Lieutenant von Holzberg, your squadron to their stations at the windows. Corporal Ridydale, take six men and bear the wounded down into the crypt.”

Following the voice, Hugh stumbled into the transept and, getting used to the dark, had a vague sight of his father, who, with his hands behind him, stood giving orders to right and left. Hugh leaned against the wall close by and kept his hand to his head that throbbed and beat with each stroke of the cannon and shake of the building. During a lull in the firing he caught the captain’s voice in a lower key: “You here, Hugh?”

“I—I take it I was frightened up,” he stammered. “You’ll help me to a sword before the end?”

“No need for that yet,” Captain Gwyeth answered. “They’ll not be able to batter in these walls for hours. And by then—” His voice took a curious change of tone: “You are sure, Hugh, they made no mention of what time Saturday the aid would come?”

“No, none,” Hugh replied; “but ’twill surely come, sir. Dick promised.”

“Well, well, we’ve much to hope,” said the captain, “and, faith, that’s all we can do now. Sit down here, Hugh,” he went on, leading him over to the pulpit stairs. “I’ve a notion ’twould be pleasing if I could lay hands on you when I want you.”

Then he went back into the din and confusion of the nave, and Hugh, leaning his head against the balustrade, harked dazedly to the successive boom of cannon. Through it all he found space in his heart to be glad that his father had not suggested sending him down into the crypt with the other wounded.

Out through a shattered window to the east he had sight of a strip of sky, uneven with clouds, and some small stars. Little by little they paled while he sat there, and still the guns kept up their clamor. Once, after the shot, came a great rattling, and a piece of stone crashed down from the western wall; Hugh heard a confused running in that direction, and the captains voice that checked it. Once again, when oddly he had fallen into a numb sort of doze, came another shattering crash, and right upon it a man screamed out in a way that made Hugh shudder and choke. After that he dozed no more, but rigid and upright sat listening.

It was light enough to distinguish faces when at length Captain Gwyeth, with his brows drawn and his teeth tugging at one end of his mustache, came up to him. “I’ve a sling here for that arm of yours,” he said brusquely, beginning to fasten the bandage. “’Twould be in your way for any fighting purposes. And here’s a sword. You may have to use it, unless our friends come quickly.” Then he paused a time by Hugh, not speaking, but scowling upon the floor, and at last strode moodily away.

The light broadened and brightened within the church; a patch of sunshine gleamed upon the floor, and through an east window Hugh could catch the rays of yellow light glinting across the sombre leaves of the yew tree. It was a rare, warm, August day, a strange time for a life and death struggle, he told himself, as he drew the sword clumsily from its scabbard. Then he looked to the western wall of the church, where the light was smiting in now at a great gap and the crumbled stones lay scattered across the floor. Up above he saw a broken fragment of the roof that hung and swayed so its motion fascinated him. Of a sudden, as he gazed stupidly, he became aware the cannonading had ceased, and he wondered that he had not marked it before. Then he heard again his father’s curt, quick tones, and saw the troopers quit their stations to gather opposite the gap in the wall.

Getting to his feet, Hugh went down to join the others. At the west door he perceived Von Holzberg standing with six men, but he passed on into the nave of the church. There at the gap the men had fallen into double line, a battered, haggard little company, some in their breastpieces, some in their shirt-sleeves. There were bandaged arms and bandaged heads among them, Hugh noted, but the carabines were all in hand, and each had his sword, too, ready at his side. Captain Gwyeth was with Ridydale, peering out at the gap in the wall, but now he turned to his men. “As you see, they have made a practicable breach in our walls,” he began. “Now they have it in mind to storm us, and afterward knock us o’ the head. So it behooves you fight for your worthless skins. And in any case, if they destroy us, see to it a good crew of these cursed rebels go to hell before us.”

Then he looked about till his eyes fell on Hugh, and, coming to him, he took him by the shoulder and brought him over to front the troop. Hugh faced the men he had once served, and he saw Unger on the farther end of the front line, and Saxon, with his head tied up, and Jeff Hardwyn, who looked at him and fumbled with his carabine. Somehow his eyes rested on Hardwyn, as the captain began speaking briskly: “I’m thinking some of you know this gentleman, my son. He has risked his neck twice to break through the lines and share this fight with us. So I set him in Cornet Foster’s place, and you will follow him as your officer. Cornet Gwyeth, you will take six men and make good the north door.”

Right on that, some one, Hugh guessed it was Saxon, broke into a cheer, which the others took up. Under cover of the noise, Captain Gwyeth, still holding Hugh by the shoulder, whispered him hurriedly: “When they come in, and we have the last fight, try to get to me. We’ll fight it out back to back, if it be God’s will.”

Just there Ridydale, standing by the breach in the wall, spoke: “Captain Gwyeth, the rebels are advancing up the hill.”