"A shiny night,
In the season of the year."
It was the third evening after that one recorded in the last chapter;
the party at Dene remained the same, though a large reinforcement was
expected on the morrow. Only the younger Vavasour was absent; he had
gone out to dine and sleep at the house of a country magnate, with whom
a Russian friend of Max's was staying. Lady Mildred and her daughter had
just left the drawing-room--it was close upon midnight--Wyverne followed
them into the hall to provide them with their tapers, and had not yet
succeeded in lighting Helen's--there never was such an obstinate piece
of wax, or such an awkward [Greek: pyrphoros.] It is possible he would
have lingered yet longer over the operation, and some pleasant last
words, but he suddenly caught sight of the chief butler standing in the
deep doorway that led towards the offices. The emergency must have been
very tremendous to induce that model of discretion to intrude himself on
any colloquy whatever; he evidently did not intend to do so now; but an
extraordinary intelligence and significance on the grave precise face,
usually possessed by a polite vacuity, made Alan conclude his
"good-nights" rather abruptly; he guessed that he was wanted.
"What is it, Hales?" he said, as soon as he came within speaking
distance.
The butler's voice was mysteriously subdued as he replied--
"My master wishes to see you in his study immediately, if you please,
Sir Alan. Mr. Somers is with him."
The said Somers was born and bred in Norfolk, but had been head keeper
at Dene for fifteen years--a brave, honest, simple-minded man, rather
blunt and unceremonious with his superiors, and apt to be surly with his
equals and subordinates; but not ill-conditioned or bad hearted _au
fond_; a really sincere and well-meaning Christian, too, though he would
swear awfully at times. He had only one aim and object in life--the
rearing and preservation of game; we should be lucky, some of us, if we
carried out our single idea as thoroughly well.
The Squire was looking rather grave and anxious, as his nephew entered.
"Tell Sir Alan at once what you have been telling me, Somers," he said.
"There is no time to lose, if we mean to act."
The keeper's hard, dark face, grew more ominous and threatening, as he
muttered--"Acting! I should hope there's no doubt about _that_: there
never was such a chance." And then in his own curt, quaint way, he gave
Wyverne the sum of his intelligence.
It appeared that the neighbourhood had been infested lately by a
formidable poaching gang, chiefly organized and directed by a certain
"Lanky Jem;" their head quarters were at Newmanham, and they had divided
their patronage pretty equally, so far, over all the manors in a circle
of miles round. They had done a good deal of harm already; for they
first appeared in the egging season, and had netted a large number of
partridges and hares, even before the first of September, since which
day they had been out somewhere every night. Of course it was most
important to arrest their depredations before they could get at the
pheasants. The gang had been seen more than once at their work; but
their numbers were too formidable--they mustered quite a score--for a
small party to buckle with; and to track them home was impossible; they
had carts always near, artfully concealed, with really good trotters in
the shafts; so, when they had secured as much as they could carry, they
were able to ensure their retreat, and dispose of their booty. In
Newmanham they took the precaution of changing their quarters
perpetually, which made it more difficult to catch them "red-handed."
That very day, however, one of the lot, partly from revenge, partly on
the certainty of a rich reward, had turned traitor. Somers was in
possession of exact information as to time and place: about _catching_
the poachers that night there was no doubt whatever--_holding_ them was
another question; for "Lanky Jem" had made no secret of his intention to
show fight if driven into a corner; indeed it was supposed that he would
not be averse to having a brush, under favourable circumstances, with
his natural enemies, the guardians of the game.
"They terms him Lanky Jem," the head-keeper explained; "'cause he comes
from Lankyshire. He's a orkard customer in a row, they say, wery
wenturesome and wery wenomous; he's taught his gang what they calls the
'rough-and-tumble game;' all's fair in that style they says, and if they
gets you down, you may reckon on having their heel in your mouth before
you can holler. I don't think that chap would have split, only he had
words with Jem; he knocked two of his teeth out, and roughed him
dreadful, by the looks on him. You'll see our man with the rest on 'em
to-night, Sir Alan, and don't you go to hit him; he'll have a spotted
hankercher half over his face, and won't be blacked like the others,
that's how you'll know him. I've taken the liberty already of letting
Sir Gilbert's folks know; we shall muster a score or thereabouts, and I
don't see no fear about matching 'em. The moon won't be down these two
hours, and they won't begin much afore that. They'll come back through
Haldon-lane, and I thought of lining it, Sir Alan, and nipping down on
'em there, if it's agreeable to you; the banks are nicely steep, and
they won't get out of _that_ trap in a hurry."
The Squire could not help smiling at the quiet way in which the old
keeper took his nephew's presence and personal aid for granted.
"You have not asked Sir Alan if he means to go out with you," he
remarked.
"I should think not," Wyverne interposed. "Somers knows me too well to
waste words in that way. What a piece of luck, to be sure! Haldon-lane
is the very place for an ambush; if we manage well we ought to bag the
whole batch of them. You shall be general, Somers--I see your baton's
all ready--I'll do my best as second in command. I think I ought to let
the other men know, Uncle Hubert? I shall be ready in ten minutes, and
so will they, I'll answer for them. If you've anything to do before we
start, you had better see about it at once, Somers. We'll all meet in
the servants' hall in a quarter of an hour."
The keeper indulged in a short, grim laugh of satisfaction and approval.
"I like to hear you talk, Sir Alan," he said; "you always comes to the
point and means business. Everything's ready when you are; but we
needn't start for a good half hour yet. My men are stanch enough, I
reckon; but it's no good keeping 'em too long, sitting in the cold."
The Squire laid his hand kindly on his nephew's shoulder, and stood for
a second or two looking into his face, with a hearty affection and
pride.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you are here, Alan. Even if Max had been
at home, I think I would have asked you to go out to-night. I am too old
for this sort of thing now; but somebody must be there that I can trust
thoroughly. There will be wild work before morning, I fear, and coolness
may be needed as much as courage. There has been no bloodshed, for the
game, in my time, that the village-doctor could not stanch; and it would
grieve me bitterly--_you_ can guess why--if any one were dangerously
hurt now. We have had no fray so serious as this promises to be. You
will take care, Alan, will you not? I am very anxious about it; I half
wish I were going out myself."
"I'll take every care, Uncle Hubert," the other answered, cheerily. "But
I don't the least apprehend any grave accident; it isn't likely they
will have guns with them, as they are out netting, and don't dream of
being waylaid. I must go and tell the others, and get ready. I shall see
you before we start, and when we come back, perhaps, with our
prisoners."
It was very characteristic of those two, that Vavasour never hesitated
to expose his nephew to peril, nor of excusing himself for not going out
to share it; while Wyverne accepted the position perfectly, simply, and
naturally. It was evidently a plain question of expediency; the idea
that it was possible to shrink from mere personal danger never crossed
either of their minds.
Lord Clydesdale and Bertie Grenvil decided at once on joining the
expedition; though it must be confessed that the alacrity displayed by
the former hardly amounted to enthusiasm: it had rather the appearance
of making the best of a disagreeable necessity.
Alan had nearly finished his brief preparations when there came a low
knock at his door; when he opened it Lady Mildred's maid was on the
threshold. "'My lady' wished to speak to him particularly: she was in
her boudoir, and would not detain him a moment."
There Wyverne found her. It struck him that her cheek was a shade paler
than usual, but the effect of contrast, produced by her _peignoir_ of
deep purple and her dark hair braided close round her small head, may
have helped to deceive him. There was an accent of annoyance in her
voice as she said--
"Alan, what is this I hear about your going out with the keepers? How
can you be so rash? What on earth are those people paid for if it is not
to take poachers? Surely they know their own business best, and can do
it alone."
"Not on an occasion like this, Aunt Mildred: heads as well as hands are
useful sometimes. Even as Venice used to send out a pacific civilian to
watch the conduct of their generals, so am I deputed to-night to control
the ardour of the faithful Somers and his merry-men all. I hope to do
myself credit as a moderator."
"I wish you would be serious for once. Even if _you_ must go out, which
I am certain there is no necessity for, there can be no reason for those
other two accompanying you. Of course, I don't suppose there is danger
of life; but it is quite dreadful to think of that poor delicate Bertie
_aux prises_ with some drunken ruffian; and if Lord Clydesdale were to
meet even with a slight hurt or disfigurement, I am sure he would detest
Dene for ever and ever. Alan, do try what you can do to stop it."
He laughed within himself as he muttered, under his breath, "_Enfin, je
te vois arriver_;" but his manner was quite easy and unsuspicious as he
answered her--
"I'm not much afraid for the Cherub; he can take good care of himself
anywhere. You all pet him so much that you do injustice to his pluck.
You never seem to remember that he is a soldier. He may have to guard
his head in sharp earnest one of these days. But you are quite right
about Clydesdale. I had much rather he stayed behind; but I fear it
would be useless to try to dissuade him now. Aunt Mildred, you don't
quite understand these things. He _must_ go. But you may sleep in peace.
Not a hair of that august head shall be harmed if I can help it. You
have read your _Maid of Perth_? Well, your unworthy nephew and other
retainers of the house will do duty as a body-guard, like Torquil and
his eight sons. The word for the night is, _Bas air son Eachin_. I only
hope the parallel won't quite be carried out. All the nine fell, you
remember, and then--the young chief ran away. I must not stay another
second. Dear Aunt Mildred, give us your good wishes. You may be easy, if
you will only trust to me."
He kissed her hand before she was aware, and was gone before she could
reply. When Alan came into the servants' hall, he found the whole party
mustered, with the exception of the Earl, who joined them almost
immediately. The latter had evidently bestowed some pains on his
equipment. He wore rather an elaborate cap, with a black cock's feather
in the band, white breeches, and boots coming above the knee; but the
most remarkable feature was a broad belt of untanned leather, girding
the shooting-coat of black velvet. From this was suspended a formidable
revolver, balanced by a veritable _couteau-de-chasse_.
Wyverne scanned him from head to foot with a cool critical eye, and then
took Clydesdale aside a little from the rest.
"It's a picturesque 'get up,'" he said; "a little too much in the style
of the bold smuggler, but that's a matter of taste. May I ask what you
intend to do with these?"
He touched the weapons with the point of his finger.
"Do with them? Use them, of course," the earl replied, flushing angrily.
"I made my fellow load the revolver afresh, while I was dressing.
There's no fear of its missing fire."
The other laughed outright.
"Did you mean to let all those barrels off, and then go in and finish
the wounded with that terrible hanger? I give you credit for the idea;
but, my dear Clydesdale, we are not in Russia or the Tyrol, unluckily. A
man's life is held of some account here, you know, and there's a d--l of
a row if you massacre even a poacher. You must be content with the
primeval club. See, there's a dozen to choose from. The Squire allows no
other weapons. Ask him, if you like. Here he comes."
Vavasour, when appealed to, spoke so decisively on the subject, that the
Earl had no option but to yield. He did so, chafing savagely, for he was
unused to the faintest contradiction, and registered in his sullen heart
another grievance against Alan Wyverne. After a few words of caution and
encouragement, addressed by the Squire to the whole party, they started.
He griped his nephew's hand hard as the latter went out, and whispered
one word--"Remember."
When they had gone a few hundred yards from the house, Wyverne fell back
to the rear of the column and took Grenvil by the arm.
"Look here, Bertie," he said, gravely. "I'm rather sorry I didn't go out
alone on this business. We shall meet a roughish lot in an hour's time.
Now, don't be rash and run your head against danger unnecessarily. I
shall not be able to look after you; I've got a bigger baby in charge
to-night. I should hate myself for ever if your beauty was spoiled."
The Cherub laughed carelessly and confidently. The burliest Paladin that
ever wore a beard was not more utterly fearless than he. He could use
those little hands of his (he was in the habit of exchanging gloves with
his favourite partners) as neatly and as prettily as he did everything
else, and in sooth was no contemptible antagonist for a lightweight.
"Don't bother yourself about me, Alan," he answered. "I'll look after my
face, you may rely on it. I've been very diligent in my practice lately,
and if I get hold of an extraordinarily small poacher, perhaps I may
astonish him with what the Pet calls--the 'London Particular.'"
They met Sir Gilbert Nevil's men by the way, and when they reached the
place of ambush, numbered twenty-two stalwart fighting men. The spot was
admirably adapted for the purpose; a narrow deep lane passed just there
through the crest of a small hill, and the brushwood on the steep banks
was sufficient to hide a larger party. The rest nestled down there as
comfortably as they could, while Alan and the head-keeper climbed the
ridge to look out over the champaign lying beneath them. They had not
long to wait before two lights appeared on the plain below, moving
quickly within a foot or so of the ground, and every now and then
becoming stationary. They were lanterns fastened round the necks of the
steady pointers quartering the stubbles.
The keeper gave vent to a suppressed groan, ending in a growl.
"There they are, d--n 'em," he muttered. "The very beat I meant you to
take to-morrow, Sir Alan. They won't be long in filling that ere blasted
bag of theirs. I see five coveys on that forty-acre bit this arternoon.
We'll take our change out of 'em before we sleep, or my name ain't Ben
Somers."
Wyverne shook his head warningly.
"Your blood's hotter than mine, I do believe," he said, "though you are
old enough to be my father. But mind, there is to be no unnecessary
violence to-night. I've passed my word to the Squire, and you ought to
help me to keep it. If they show fight, it's another matter, and they
may take the consequences."
"I'll pound it, they fight," the other grumbled; "it comes more nateral
to Jem than running, 'specially as he'll find hisself in a middlin'
tight trap. We may get back to cover, sir; they'll not be long now; I
reckon they'll finish in that stubble close agin' the lane."
So they rejoined their companions. The ambush was thus disposed. Eight
men, including Somers, Wyverne, and Lord Clydesdale, took post, four on
either bank, at a certain spot; six others, similarly divided, were left
about forty yards in the rear--Bertie Grenvil was with this lot--the
others concealed themselves at short intervals along the vacant space;
the signal was not to be given till the poachers had got well into the
space between the two main bodies; that in advance was rather the
strongest, as it was expected the marauders would try to force their way
into the high road, where carts were sure to be awaiting them. So,
without a movement of tongue or finger, they were to bide their time.
Unless one is gifted with exceptional nerves, that time of suspense
before action is very trying. To compare great things with small, I
heard one of the best and bravest of all who went up to the Redan,
confess, the other day, that he never felt so uncomfortable as during
those long minutes when the men stood in their ranks waiting for the
last orders, and that it was an unspeakable relief when the word was
given for the stormers to advance.
Lord Clydesdale evidently liked his position less and less every moment.
"Cursedly cold, isn't it?" he muttered, at last, and in truth his teeth
were chattering audibly.
"Pocket-pistols are not interdicted, if other fire-arms are," Wyverne
whispered, good-humouredly. "Take a pull at mine, and wrap my plaid
round you; I really don't want it, I'm better clothed for this work than
you are, I fancy; I've been at it before."
The Earl took the plaid, and half drained the flask without a word of
thanks; he was still brooding sulkily over the rebuff he fancied he had
met with before starting; besides this, the world had spoilt him so
long, that self-sacrifice on the part of his fellow-men for the
convenience of Lord Clydesdale, seemed to him the most natural condition
of things imaginable; he accepted such tributes affably or morosely,
according to his humour, but invariably as his proper due.
Alan interpreted his companion's feelings pretty correctly, and smiled
contemptuously to himself in the darkness.
"You amiable aristocrat!" he muttered between his teeth; "if it were not
for vexing Aunt Mildred, and for my promise to her, would I _not_ let
you look out for yourself this cold morning? I wonder if a thoroughly
good thrashing would improve your temper; it were a good deed to allow
the experiment to be tried. I do believe the most inveterate ruffian we
shall meet, has more natural courtesy than has fallen to your share."
But the momentary bitterness soon passed away. Alan--as is the wont of
his kind--never felt so benevolent towards mankind in general as when
the moment of danger approached, which was to bring him into conflict
with certain units of the species. Surely that perfect physical
fearlessness is an enviable, if not a very ennobling qualification; it
enables you to charge a big fence or a big adversary, with comparative
comfort to yourself; in neither case, unfortunately, will it ensure you
against a bad fall; but unless quite disabled, you rise up and go on
again, as cheerfully as Antaeus, and are at all events spared any pains
of anticipation. An interval of silence which seemed very long, ensued.
Suddenly Wyverne laid a firm, steady grasp on Lord Clydesdale's arm.
"Take off that plaid," he said, in the lowest and quietest of whispers;
"you'll be warm enough in five minutes. They are in the next stubble
now."
The ear of the practised deer-stalker, accustomed to listen for the
rattle of a hoof far up the corries, had already caught certain faint
sounds imperceptible to his companions. Somers heard them, though,
nearly as soon; they could just see him through the black darkness,
stretching his brawny limbs, and twisting round his wrist the thong of
his bludgeon.
The fall of footsteps came nearer and nearer, more and more distinct, as
the poachers crossed the low fence one by one, and got on to the harder
ground; they were evidently very numerous. They did not come on in
detached straggling parties, but appeared to wait till all were in the
lane, and then advanced in something like a regular column, in the
centre of which four men carried, in two nets made for the purpose, the
night's spoil; as this entirely consisted of birds, the weight was
overwhelming, though the result had been extraordinarily successful.
"Get on, two of ye, as soon as we top the hill," a deep, hoarse voice
said, from the midst of the poachers; "and mind you see all clear."
The slightest touch of Wyverne's arm, and the discreetest chuckle,
testified to Somers' intense appreciation of the impending "sell." The
gang advanced with their habitually stealthy tread, but evidently quite
unsuspiciously, till they were hemmed in by the divisions of the ambush.
Then a whistle sounded shrill and ominous as Black Roderick's signal,
and a dozen port-fires blazed out at once, casting a weird, lurid glare
over the crowd of rugged blackened faces, working with various emotions
of wonder, rage, and fear.
In the pause that ensued, while the assailed were still under the
influence of the first surprise, and the assailants were waiting for
orders, Wyverne's voice was heard, not raised by one inflection above
its usual tone, and yet the most distant ear caught every syllable.
"Will you surrender at once? It is the best thing you can do."
The same voice answered which had spoken before--hoarse and thick with
passion.
"Surrender be d--d! Here's the chance we've been wanting ever so long.
Stick together, lads, and be smart with those bludgeons: there's enow of
us to cut the ---- keepers to rags."
Alan spoke again; and the curt, stern, incisive accents clove the still
night-air like points of steel.
"Stand fast in the front: close up there in the rear. It is our own
fault if a man gets through: we'll have all--or none."
He had only time for a hurried whisper--"Somers, whatever happens, look
after Lord Clydesdale;" for Bertie and his men came on with a rush and a
cheer. The port-fires were cast down and trampled out instantly, and
so--darkly and sullenly--the _melee_ began. It was likely to be an equal
one; the poachers had the disadvantage of the surprise and the attack
being against them, but they were slightly superior in numbers, and
their bludgeons were of a more murderous character than those carried by
the keepers, shod with iron for the most part, and heavily leaded. For a
minute or two the struggle went on in silence, only broken by the dull
sound of heavy blows, by hard, quick breathings, and by an occasional
curse or groan. Lord Clydesdale had drawn slightly aside, and so,
avoiding the first rush of the poachers, remained for awhile inactive.
Suddenly, as ill-luck would have it, he found himself face to face with
the most formidable of all the gang. "Lanky Jem" had forced his way to
the front, partly because safety lay in that direction, partly because
he fancied that there fought "the foemen worthiest of his steel;" he had
his wits perfectly about him, and was viciously determined to do as much
damage as possible, whether he escaped or no. He saw the figure standing
apart from the rest, taking no part in the conflict, and instantly
guessed that he had to do with a personage of some condition and
importance: keepers are rarely contemplative or non-combatants at such a
moment.
"Here's one of them ---- swells!" he growled. "Come on, d--n ye! I'll
have _your_ blood, if I swing for it."
Clydesdale was not exactly a coward; if any ordinary _social_ danger had
presented itself, he would scarcely have quailed before it. For
instance, I believe he would have faced a pistol at fifteen paces with
average composure. But it so happened (he had not been at a public
school) that in all his life he had never seen a blow stricken in anger.
The aspect of his present adversary fairly appalled him. Independently
of the poacher's huge proportions and evidently great strength, there
was a cool, concentrated cruelty about the bull-dog face--the white
range of grinded teeth showing in relief against the blackness of his
sooty disguise--which made him a really terrible foe. The Earl looked
helplessly round, as though seeking for succour; but all his party
seemed to have already as much as they could do. He saw the grim giant
preparing for a spring, and all presence of mind utterly deserted him;
he drew hastily back without lifting his hands to defend himself; his
heel caught in a projecting root, and he fell supine, with a loud,
piteous cry. "Lanky Jem" was actually disconcerted by such absolute
non-resistance; but the brutal instinct soon reasserted itself, and he
was rushing in to maim and mangle the fallen man, after his own savage
fashion, when a fresh adversary stood in his path, bestriding Clydesdale
where he lay.
Wyverne had been engaged with a big foundry-man, who chanced to come
across him first; but even in the fierce grapple, where pluck and
activity could scarcely hold their own against weight and brute
strength, he had found time to glance repeatedly over his shoulder. He
saw the Earl fall, and extricating himself from his opponent's gripe
with an effort that sent the latter reeling back, he sprang lightly
aside, just in time to intercept the Lancashire man from his prey. But
the odds were fearfully against him now; for his original adversary had
recovered himself, and made in quickly to help his comrade. Both struck
at Alan savagely at the same instant. He caught one blow on his club,
but was obliged to parry the other with his left arm: the head was
saved, but the limb dropped to his side powerless. He ground his teeth
hard, and threw all the strength that was left him into one bitter blow;
it lighted on the temple of the man who had disabled him, and dropped
him like a log in his tracks. But, before Wyverne could recover himself,
the terrible Lancashire bludgeon came home on his brows, crushing in the
low, stiff crown of his hat like paper, and beating him down, sick and
dizzy, to his knee. He lifted his club mechanically, but it hardly broke
the full sway of another murderous stroke, which stretched him on his
face senseless. It looked as if he had remembered his promise to the
last; for he fell right over Clydesdale, effectually shielding the
latter with his own body.
Alan's life and this story had well nigh ended there and then. Such an
abrupt termination might possibly have been to _his_ advantage as well
as to yours, reader of mine. But it was not so to be. Just as Jem was
bracing his great muscles for one cool, finishing stroke on the back of
Wyverne's unprotected skull, a lithe active form lighted on his
shoulders, and slender, nervous fingers clutched his throat till they
seemed to bury themselves in the flesh; and as he fell backward, gasping
and half-strangled, a voice, suppressed and vicious as a serpent's hiss,
muttered in his ear three words in an unknown tongue--"_Basta, basta,
carissimo_!"
The poacher's vast strength, however, soon enabled him to shake off his
last assailant, and he was rising to his feet, more dangerous than ever,
when a tremendous blow descended right across his face, gashing the
forehead and crushing the bones of the nose in one fearful wound. The
miserable wretch sank down--all his limbs collapsing--without a groan or
a struggle, and lay there half drowned in blood.
The old head keeper stooped for a moment to examine his ghastly
handiwork, and then, lifting his head, remarked with a low fierce
laugh--
"I gives you credit for that move, Master Bertie, it wur wery neatly
done."
The poachers had been getting the worst of it all through; they were so
hemmed in in the narrow way that their numbers helped them but little;
indeed, some in the centre of the crowd never struck a blow. Their
leader's fall decided the fray at once; some voice cried out--"Don't hit
us any more; we gives in;" and they threw down their bludgeons, as
though by preconcerted signal.
So ended the most successful raid that had been heard of in that country
for years; they talk of it still. Out of twenty-six men, only three
escaped, and one of these was the informer. Neither was any one mortally
or even dangerously hurt, though there were some hideous wounds on both
sides; but, if you bar gunpowder, it takes a good deal to kill outright
a real tough "shires-man." Even "Lanky Jem" recovered after a while from
Somers' swashing blow, though they were obliged to carry him back to
Dene. The permanent disfigurement which ensued, made his repulsive
countenance rather more picturesque in its ugliness, so that it was an
improvement after all. He quitted those parts, though, as soon as he got
out of gaol, and never returned.
Of all the wounded, perhaps Wyverne was the most seriously hurt; but,
though his senses came back slowly, he was able to stagger home, leaning
heavily on Bertie Grenvil's shoulder. You must imagine the satisfaction
with which the Squire welcomed the conquerors and their captives.
Unwounded from the dreadful close,
But breathless all, the Earl arose.
Even his overweening self-esteem could not prevent Clydesdale's feeling
nervous and uncomfortable. He was conscious of having betrayed a very
discreditable pusillanimity; and he could not guess how many might be in
the secret of his discomfiture. There was nothing in the mere fact of
his coming out of the fray scathless, for Grenvil had not a scratch or a
bruise; but it struck him as rather odd, that nobody asked "if he were
hurt in any way." He was so perturbed in spirit, as hardly to be able to
display a decent amount of solicitude about Wyverne's injuries, or to
sympathize, with a good grace, in the triumph of the rest of the party.
There was one man, at all events, that he could never look in the face
again, without an unpleasant feeling of inferiority and obligation. Poor
Alan! He meant well; but he did not make a very good night's work of it,
after all. He got one or two hard blows, and changed Clydesdale's
previous dislike into a permanent and inveterate hate. Virtue is always
its own reward, you know.
Perhaps the Earl's _largesse_ to every one concerned in the capture
would not have been so extravagantly liberal, if he had guessed how
thoroughly the old keeper appreciated the real state of affairs. When
Somers alluded to the subject--which he did once a month for the rest of
his natural life--he generally concluded in these words:
"It wur the prettiest managed thing ever I see; but we wery near got
muddled at one time, all along of that there helpless Lord."