When Fred came to himself, he was no longer lying upon straw, but upon a
comfortable bed, in a clean, white-washed room. It was evening, for the
sun seemed to be low, and sending a ruddy glow through the open window.
For a time he felt puzzled, and wondered why he was there; and as he
tried to collect his thoughts, and the memory of the fight which he had
heard came back, it seemed as if it was all a dream.
But no; that was no dream. Tramp--tramp! tramp--tramp!--the heavy march
of an armed man. It was a sentinel going to and fro beneath the window
sure enough; for the footsteps sounded faint, grew gradually louder, as
if passing close to the window, became gradually fainter, and then grew
louder once more, and this over and over again.
At the same time that he was listening to this, he became aware of a
peculiar scratching noise close by, but until in his heavy drowsy state
he had settled in his own mind that it was a sentinel, he could not pay
any heed to the scratching.
By degrees he recognised the sound as being that of a pen, and knew that
some one was writing, and just as he had arrived at this conclusion,
there was the faint scrape of a chair, a clinking noise such as might be
made by the hilt of a sword against a breastplate, and directly after a
sun-browned, anxious face was gazing earnestly into his.
"Father!" whispered Fred, feebly.
"My dear boy! Thank Heaven!"
The first sentence was uttered aloud--the second breathed softly.
"How is it with you, Fred?"
"Bad, father, bad," he murmured. "I seem to have no strength left,
and--and--and--oh, father," he gasped, as he clung to the hand which
took his, "I did--indeed, I did my best."
"Why, Fred, my boy, Fred. Don't--don't take it so seriously as that.
You were overpowered and wounded."
"Yes, father, but you trusted me with the prisoners, and I allowed
myself to be out-manoeuvred, and I have disgraced myself."
"What! How?"
"And I did try so hard to do my duty. I wish now I had been killed."
"Fred! My son!"
"Don't be angry with me now I am so weak."
"Yes, too weak, my dear boy," said Colonel Forrester, as he knelt down
by the bedside, and passed his arm beneath the lad's neck as he kissed
his forehead, "too weak to talk about all this. Be silent and listen to
me."
Fred answered by a look.
"You think you have disgraced yourself by letting your enemies
out-manoeuvre you, and with the prisoners turn the table on your little
escort?"
Fred gave another pitiful look.
"That you have disgraced yourself for ever as a young officer?"
"Yes," whispered the wounded lad.
"And that I, your father and your colonel, am angry for what you look
upon as a lapse?"
Fred tried to bow his head, but failed.
"Well, then, my dear boy, let me set your poor weak head at rest. I
know everything you did from your start until you were trapped in the
wood, the enemy letting you pass one troop, and having another waiting
for you at the end of the wood."
"Yes, that is how it was, and I did not take sufficient care."
"Yes, you did, my boy; your precautions were all that an officer on such
a duty could take, and all that I should have taken."
"You seem to be giving me fresh life, father," whispered Fred. "But how
did you know?"
"Partly from the advance guard, partly from Samson; and both join in
saying that my son behaved as a gallant officer should. I am quite
satisfied, my boy. I sent you upon a dangerous expedition, and in spite
of the perils of your journey, you have escaped with life, and you are
no longer a prisoner. In fact, we have turned the tables on the enemy
again, and read them a lesson they will not forget."
"Yes; I heard the fighting, father."
"And do you know whose men they were?"
"No."
"Sir Godfrey Markham's."
"Father?"
"Yes; and his son, lately your prisoner, was with them."
"And they are prisoners now?"
"No, my boy; they cut their way out with about a hundred mere, and
escaped. This war is one of constant change."
"Then you are not angry with me, father?"
"On the contrary, Fred, I am proud. You acted better than many older
officers would have done."
"You say that to comfort me over my disgrace."
"I say it because it is true, and because you are not in disgrace. A
far more experienced man would easily have been led into such an ambush,
betrayed as you were."
"Betrayed?" said Fred.
"Yes; some one must have carried information to the enemy."
"You think that?"
"Of course."
"But who could have done so? We had no traitors with us."
"Perhaps not, but the enemy may have had friends near."
"Impossible, father!"
"Quite possible, my boy. Where did you stay to refresh your men?"
"Here, father--at this very place. At least," added Fred, as he glanced
round, "if this is the little inn where I was a prisoner in the loft."
"The very place, my boy; and now the secret is out. Lie still now, and
don't speak."
Fred gazed at his father eagerly as he rose from his knees and crossed
to the door, which he opened, passed out on to the landing, called for
the host, and returned.
Instead of the florid landlord, there was a heavy step on the stairs,
and the shock-headed boy of the place entered the room to look from Fred
to Colonel Forrester and back.
"Where does the nearest doctor live?" said the colonel, quietly.
"At Brownsand," replied the lad, with another sympathetic glance at the
wounded officer.
"Rather a long ride?"
"Only twelve miles, sir."
"But that's where a body of the king's men lie, is it not?"
"Well, no, sir, I don't think so now. Those is them that you had to
fight with. They were at Brownsand t'other day."
"You have a horse here, have you not?"
"No, sir, only a pony; and if I took the short cut it would not be a
long journey."
"But could the pony do the journey to-day?"
"Do it to-day, sir? Yes; she's as hard as a stag."
"That will do for the present," said Colonel Forrester.
"Shall I ride over for the doctor, sir?"
"No. Send up your master."
The lad went down quite sulkily, and delivered his message, while
Colonel Forrester smiled at his son.
"Well, Fred," he said, "I suppose you see now?"
Fred's answer was cut short off by the heavy step of the landlord, who
came up with a sympathising look in his face, and seemed eager to serve.
"The young gentleman's not worse, sir, I hope."
"You are sorry for him, then?" said the colonel, quietly.
"Sorry for him, sir? Why of course I am."
"As sorry as you were for the young prisoner he brought by here."
"Oh yes, sir, I was sorry for him, too; but he was not wounded."
"You treacherous dog!" cried the colonel, in a voice of thunder, as he
seized the landlord by the throat, and forced him to his knees; "so
nothing would do but you must bid that boy take the pony and ride over
to Brownsand so as to betray the fact that an escort of prisoners had
halted at your house and were gone on by the Brownsand road."
"No, sir; I never--I never did."
"You lie, you old villain: tell the truth before I hand you over to my
men, and have you hung for a spy on the nearest tree."
"I swear, colonel, I never did anything of the kind," cried the
landlord, piteously.
"No, sir, it is not true," cried a girlish voice; and the landlord's
little daughter appeared in the doorway.
"Then pray who did?" cried Colonel Forrester.
"I did, sir," said the girl, undauntedly.
"And pray, why?"
"Because I heard that the young officer was Sir Godfrey Markham's son,
and it seemed so horrible that he should be dragged off a prisoner."
"What do you know of Sir Godfrey Markham?" asked the colonel, sternly.
"I had heard my father speak of him, sir."
"And so you planned all this and executed it yourself?"
"Yes, sir; I sent our lad off with a message to where the king's men
lay."
"I need not ask, I suppose, whether you are telling the truth," said the
colonel, grimly.
"No, sir. Why should I tell a lie?" replied the girl, quietly; and she
looked unflinchingly in her questioner's face.
"And at the first opportunity, I suppose, you will betray us into the
enemy's hands?"
"Oh no, sir," said the girl, with the tears in her eyes, as she glanced
at Fred. "I would sooner try and save you, though you are the enemies
of our king."
"Silence, girl! there is no king now in England, only a man who calls
himself king. A tyrant who has been driven from the throne."
The girl flushed and held up her head.
"It is not true," she cried, proudly. "God save the king!"
"What!" cried Colonel Forrester, in a voice of thunder; and for the
first time the innkeeper spoke, his ruddy face now mottled with white,
and his hands trembling as he placed them together beseechingly.
"Don't take any notice of what she says, sir. She's a foolish, wilful
girl, sir. I've been a miserable coward to hold my tongue so long, but
I will speak now. It was all my doing. I held back so as not to seem
in the business, because I wanted to be friends with both sides, sir;
but I could not bear to see the young squire carried off a prisoner, and
I winked at it all. It was my doing, sir. Don't believe a word she
says."
"Father, what have you said?" cried his child, clinging to him.
"Hush! Hold your tongue," he whispered angrily.
"So we have the truth at last," said the colonel. "You convict yourself
of being a spy and traitor; and you know your fate, I suppose?"
As Colonel Forrester spoke, he rose and walked to the window, made a
sign with his hand, and directly after heavy steps were heard upon the
stairs, accompanied by the clank of arms.
In an instant the girl was at the colonel's feet.
"Oh, sir, what are you going to do?" she shrieked. "He is my father."
The guilty innkeeper's lips were quivering, and the white portions in
his face were gradually increasing, to the exclusion of the red, for the
steps of the soldiers on the stairs brought vividly before his eyes the
scene of a spy's fate. He knew what such a traitor's end would be, and,
speechless with terror, he could hardly keep his feet, as he looked from
his child to the stern colonel and back again.
"Father!" she cried, "why don't you speak? Why don't you ask him to
forgive us?"
"Mercy--mercy!" faltered the wretched man.
"What mercy did you have on my poor boy?" cried the colonel, fiercely.
"Through your treachery, he was surrounded by five times the number of
his own men; and, for aught you cared, instead of lying wounded here he
might have been dead."
"Mercy! I did not know," gasped the miserable culprit.
"Mercy? Yes; you shall have the choice of your own trees on which to
hang," cried the colonel.
"No, no; mercy!" gasped the trembling man, dropping on his knees; "for
my child's sake--for Heaven's sake--spare me!"
"Father!" cried Fred, excitedly.
"Silence, boy! I am their judge," said Colonel Forrester, sternly.
"Yes, man, for your child's sake, I will spare you, in spite of your
cowardly treachery."
"Father, father!" cried the girl, excitedly; but he could not speak.
"Yes, I will spare you for your child's sake," said the colonel again.
"There, little woman, I forgive you, for you are as brave and
true-hearted as can be. I believe you--every word. Your little heart
was moved to pity for the prisoner, as it has been moved to pity for my
poor boy here, and for my men."
He took her hand in his, and held it.
"I have heard of all your busy nursing, and I do not blame you; I would
rather praise. There, help the old man downstairs, and I am not afraid
of your betraying us."
The girl raised his hand and kissed it before rushing to her father,
flinging her arms about him, and helping him away, so weak and
semi-paralysed by fright that he could hardly totter from the room, the
colonel following to the door, and signing to the soldiers to go down.
"There, he has had his punishment," said the colonel, smiling; "and now
you will be able to rest in peace."
"Thank you, father, thank you," whispered Fred, huskily.
"You see you were not to blame now."
"Not so much as I thought, father."
"Not to blame at all. There, make haste and grow strong, my boy, before
we are driven out in turn by the enemy."
"Are they near, father?"
"No; as far as I know, my boy. But the victors of yesterday are the
defeated to-day, perhaps to win again to-morrow. Ah, my boy, it is
fratricidal work! and, though I love my cause as well as ever, I would
give all I possess as one of the richest men in our county to see home
smiling again in peace."