It took me ten minutes perhaps to dress the wound and tie a rude bandage; and perhaps another four to pull off coat and shoes and slip into the staff officer’s tunic, pull on his riding boots over my blue canvas trousers—­at a distance scarcely discernible in colour from his tight-fitting breeches—­and buckle on his sword-belt.  I had some difficulty in finding his cap, for he had tossed it carelessly behind one of the fallen beams, and by this time the light was bad within the patio.  The horse gave me no trouble, being an old campaigner, no doubt, and used to surprises.  I untethered him and led him gently across the yard, picking my way in a circuit which would take him as far as possible from his fallen master.  But glancing back just before mounting, to my horror I saw that the wounded man had raised himself on his right elbow and was staring at me.  Our eyes met; what he thought—­whether he suspected the truth or accepted the sight as a part of his delirium—­I shall never know.  The next instant he fell back again and lay inert.

I passed out into the open.  The warning gun must have sounded without my hearing it, for across the meadow the townspeople were retracing their way to the town gate, which closed at sunset.  At any moment now the patrols might be upon me; so swinging myself into the saddle I set off at a brisk trot towards the gate.

My chief peril for the moment lay in the chance of meeting the lieutenant on his way back with the doctor; yet I must run this risk and ride through the town to the bridge gate, the river being unfordable for miles to the northward and trending farther and farther away from Guarda; and Guarda must be reached at all costs, or by to-morrow Trant’s and Wilson’s garrisons would have ceased to exist.  My heart fairly sank when on reaching the gate I saw an officer in talk with the sentry there, and at least a score of men behind him.  I drew aside; he stepped out and called an order to his company, which at once issued and spread itself in face of the scattered groups of citizens returning across the meadow.

“Yes, captain,” said the sentry, answering the question in my look,” they are after a spy, it seems, who has been practising here as a barber.  They say even the famous McNeill.”

I rode through the gateway and spurred my horse to a trot again, heading him down a side street to the right.  This took me some distance out of my way, but anything was preferable to the risk of meeting the lieutenant, and I believed that I had yet some minutes to spare before the second gunfire.

In this I was mistaken.  The gun boomed out just as I came in sight of the bridge gate, and the lieutenant of the guard appeared clanking out on the instant to close the heavy doors.  I spurred my horse and dashed down at a canter, hailing loudly:—­

“A spy!—­a barber fellow; here, hold a minute!”

“Yes, we have had warning half an hour ago.  Nobody has passed out since.”