Another fortnight passed, and Malcolm reluctantly gave the word that on the morrow the march must be recommenced.  A general feeling of sorrow reigned in the village when it was known that their guests were about to depart, for the Scottish soldiers had made themselves extremely popular.  They were ever ready to assist in the labours of the village.  They helped to pick the apples from the heavily laden trees, they assisted to thrash out the corn, and in every way strove to repay their entertainers for the kindness they had shown them.

Of an evening their camp had been the rendezvous of the whole village.  There alternately the soldiers and the peasants sang their national songs, and joined in hearty choruses.  Sometimes there were dances, for many of the villagers played on various instruments; and altogether Glogau had never known such a time of festivity and cheerfulness before.

Late in the evening of the day before they had fixed for their departure the pastor rode into the village.

“I have bad news,” he said.  “A party of Pappenheim’s dragoons, three hundred strong, are raiding in the district on the other side of the hills.  A man came in just as I mounted my horse, saying that it was expected they would attack Mansfeld, whose count is a sturdy Protestant.  The people were determined to resist to the last, in spite of the fate of Magdeburg and Frankenhausen, but I fear that their chance of success is a small one; but they say they may as well die fighting as be slaughtered in cold blood.”

“Is Mansfeld fortified?” Malcolm asked.

“It has a wall,” the pastor replied, “but of no great strength.  The count’s castle, which stands on a rock adjoining it, might defend itself for some time, but I question whether it can withstand Pappenheim’s veterans.

“Mansfeld itself is little more than a village.  I should not say it had more than a thousand inhabitants, and can muster at best about two hundred and fifty men capable of bearing arms.”

“How far is it from here?” Malcolm asked after a pause.

“Twenty-four miles by the bridle path across the hills.”

“When were the Imperialists expected to arrive?”

“They were ten miles away this morning,” the pastor replied; “but as they were plundering and burning as they went they will not probably arrive before Mansfeld before the morning.  Some of the more timid citizens were leaving, and many were sending away their wives and families.”

“Then,” Malcolm said, “I will march thither at once.  Twenty good soldiers may make all the difference, and although I have, of course, no orders for such an emergency, the king can hardly blame me even if the worst happens for striking a blow against the Imperialists here.  Will you give me a man,” he asked the farmer, “to guide us across the hills?”

“That will I right willingly,” the farmer said; “but it seems to me a desperate service to embark in.  These townspeople are of little good for fighting, and probably intend only to make a show of resistance in order to procure better terms.  The count himself is a brave nobleman, but I fear that the enterprise is a hopeless one.”