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--

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 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.