“Ormond,” he said, staring at vacancy, “what trivial matters a man thinks of in the shadow of death.  I can’t consider it; I can’t be reconciled to it; I can’t even pray.  One absurd idea possesses me—­that Singleton will have the Legion now; and he’s a slack drill-master—­he is, indeed!...  I’ve a million things to think of—­an idle life to consider, a misspent career to repent, but the time is too short, Ormond....  Perhaps all that will come at the instant of—­of—­”

“Death,” I said, wearily.

“Yes, yes; that’s it, death.  I’m no coward; I’m calm enough—­but I’m stunned.  I can’t think for the suddenness of it!...  And you just home; and Ruyven there, snuggled close to you as a house-cat—­and then that sound of galloping, like a fly-stung herd of cattle in a pasture!”

“I think Ruyven is safe,” I said, closing my eyes.

“Yes, he’s safe.  Nobody chased him; they’ll know at the manor by this time; they knew long ago....  My men will be out....  Where are we, Ormond?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured, drowsily.  The months of fatigue, the unbroken strain, the feverish weeks spent in endless trails, the constant craving for movement to occupy my thoughts, the sleepless nights which were the more unendurable because physical exhaustion could not give me peace or rest, now told on me.  I drowsed in the very presence of death; and the stupor settled heavily, bringing, for the first time since I left Varick Manor, rest and immunity from despair or even desire.

I cared for nothing:  hope of her was dead; hope of life might die and I was acquiescent, contented, glad of the end.  I had endured too much.

My sleep—­or unconsciousness—­could not have lasted long; the sun was not yet level with my eyes when I roused to find Sir George tugging at my sleeve and a man in a soiled and tarnished scarlet uniform standing over me.

But that brief respite from the strain had revived me; a bucket of cold water stood near the fire, and I thrust my burning face into it, drinking my fill, while the renegade in scarlet bawled at me and fumed and cursed, demanding my attention to what he was saying.

“You damned impudent rebel!” he yelled; “am I to stand around here awaiting your pleasure while you swill your skin full?”

I wiped my lips with my torn hands, and got to my feet painfully, a trifle dizzy for a moment, but perfectly able to stand and to comprehend.

“I’m asking you,” he snarled, “why we can’t send a flag to your people without their firing on it?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.

“I do,” said Sir George, blandly.

“Oh, you do, eh?” growled the renegade, turning on him with a scowl.  “Then tell me why our flag of truce is not respected, if you can.”

“Nobody respects a flag from outlaws,” said Sir George, coolly.