Soon after daybreak the journey was continued.  A sharp watch was now kept up, as at any moment parties of the Swedish cavalry making a raid far in advance of their lines might be met with.  No such adventure happened, and late in the afternoon the troop halted on the crest of a low hill.

“Here,” the officer said, “we part.  That town which you see across the river is held by the Swedes, and you will certainly meet with no molestation from any of our side as you ride down to it.”

Malcolm thanked the officer for the courtesy he had shown him on the journey, and then rode forward towards the town.  It was getting dusk as he neared the bridge, but as he came close Malcolm’s heart gave a bound as he recognized the green scarves and plumes worn by the sentries at the bridge.  These seeing only a single horseman with a female behind him did not attempt to question him as he passed; but he reined in his horse.

“Whose regiment do you belong to?” he asked.

The men looked up in surprise at being addressed in their own language by one whose attire was that of a simple craftsman, but whom they now saw rode a horse of great strength and beauty.

“We belong to Hamilton’s regiment,” they replied.

“And where shall I find that of Munro?”

“It is lying in quarters fifteen miles away,” one of the soldiers answered.

“Then we cannot get on there tonight,” Malcolm said.  “Where are your officers quartered?”

A soldier standing near at once volunteered to act as guide, and in a few minutes Malcolm arrived at the house occupied by them.  He was of course personally known to all the officers, and as soon as their surprise at his disguise and at seeing him accompanied by a young lady had subsided, they received him most heartily.

Thekla was at once taken to the house of the burgomaster, which was close at hand, and handed over to the wife of that functionary for the night, and Malcolm spent a merry evening with the Scottish officers, to whom he related the adventures which had so satisfactorily terminated —­ making, however, no allusion to the political secrets which he had discovered or the mission with which he was charged.  He was soon furnished from the wardrobes of the officers with a suit of clothes, and although his craftsman attire had served him well he was glad to don again the uniform of the Scottish brigade.

“You have cut your narrative strangely short at the end, Graheme,” Colonel Hamilton said when Malcolm brought his story to a conclusion.  “How did you get away from Pilsen at last, and from whom did you steal that splendid charger on whom you rode up to the door?”

“That is not my own secret, colonel, and I can only tell you at present that Wallenstein himself gave it to me.”

A roar of incredulous laughter broke from the officers round the table.

“A likely story indeed, Graheme; the duke was so fascinated with your talents as a watchmaker that he bestowed a charger fit for his own riding upon you to carry you across into our lines.”