Roy

CHAPTER XXXVI

A HAZARDOUS RETREAT

WITH almost superhuman energy the greatest General of that day had exerted himself to bring up such a force, that the utter destruction of the British might be a thing assured. In the course of ten days, and in the bitterest wintry weather, he had marched fifty thousand soldiers over snow-clad mountains a distance of two hundred miles, only to find his stupendous efforts fruitless.

Now, all that Moore could hope to do was to save his little Army from being crushed out of existence. To that aim he buckled his powers, with unfaltering resolution. As William Napier wrote in after years, "The inspiring hopes of triumph disappeared, but the austerer glory of suffering remained, and with a firm heart he accepted that gift."

By the greater number in Moore's force this long ten days' retreat to the coast had to be done on foot.

There were steep mountains to be climbed, there were deep valleys to be passed, there were rapid rivers to be crossed; while an overwhelming and confident Army, accustomed to unvarying success—an Army which had twice failed by only twelve hours to cut them off from every hope of escape—pressed with ever-growing fierceness upon the British rearguard.

It was mid-winter, and snow lay upon the ground. The days were short, the nights were bitter. Heavy ice-cold rain fell often. Food was scanty; shelter was hard to find; and both officers and men slept upon the cold ground. The Spanish Army, contrary to Moore's earnest request, blundered into the way of the retreating force, eating up the provisions on which the English depended, and blocking the roads with carts and mules.

In that furious race between the British and the French, first for Benevente, next for Astorga, not an hour could be lost. At all costs they had to press forward.

Hour after hour, oftentimes by night, the march continued, through rain, or snow, or fog; up steep and slippery ascents, or down sharp depths where foothold could hardly be found. On and on the men stumbled, hungry, thirsty, weary, half asleep, not a few shoeless and lame, many a one dropping through weakness by the roadside, never to rise again.

In the van and in the centre of the Army some confusion reigned. But in the reserve, where Moore was usually to be found, riding beside his friend, General Paget, perfect discipline was maintained. All there knew themselves to be under the eyes of their Commander, and his presence, together with the attacks of the enemy, kept them up to the mark. Again and again, and yet again, the French advanced guards were charged and driven back.

The regiment to which belonged Jack, Roy, and Bob was in the Reserve, to the no small delight of all three.

Roy Baron had passed through some strange experiences in his short life. He would not easily forget this last experience—this steady, disheartening, rearwards tramp, with Napoleon's trained battalions ever "thundering" behind them.

He would not soon forget the bitter snowy weather, the sleet and hail, the fogs and winds, the mountain heights, the exposed nights, the dogged pluck and determination shown by the rearguard, the ceaseless care and watchfulness of Moore, the invincible resolution of this man, who by sheer force of will held the whole Army together, and never at the worst allowed the retreat for one moment to become a flight.

Not that Roy was disheartened or depressed. Far from it. He was young and strong and full of vigour. The very hardships of the retreat seemed to him far lighter than those of that miserable march, which he could recall, from Verdun to Bitche. For then he was handcuffed, and felt himself treated with cruel injustice and tyranny. Now he was fighting for his country; he was in the midst of friends; and not a day passed without a sight of the Commander, upon whom he looked with a passionate admiration and love.

He hated the fact of having to retire; but at all times it took a good deal to lower Roy's buoyant spirits. And the men of the Reserve had too much hard fighting on hand to admit of their growing down-hearted. Any one of them might any day chance to win a smile of commendation from Moore. That was worth fighting for, worth bearing anything for!

Roy soon learnt what it was to be under fire. If at first the experience was to him, as to most men, unpleasant, he grew quickly used to it. Before long he had the supreme joy of being personally praised by the General for dashing courage. It seemed to Roy that day that life lacked nothing.

He managed to start a letter to Molly, in readiness for the first chance of getting it off. A thought had come to him that if—if something should happen, which might happen to him as to any other soldier, she would be glad that he had written once more to his twin. So he set to work when a spare half-hour could be found.

"Janʸ 1, 1809."

   "MY DEAR MOLLY,—Jack thinks I may be able soon to send a letter on with despatches from Headquarters, and I wᵈ fain have one ready. So ends the old year—truly an eventful year to me—and so begins the new year. Jack and Bob and I keep well. There is much that I cᵈ tell you, but have not time. An event which took place two or three days ago may, however, be of interest to you."

   "We of the Reserve marched at daybreak for La Banessa, and Paget, as usual, brought up the rear. That's Lord Paget, by the bye, who commands the cavalry of the rearguard, not Brigadier-General Paget, who commands the whole Reserve. At nine o'clock the enemy was seen to be examining a ford near to the bridge across the Esla, which had been blown up; and the next thing, six hundred of Napoleon's Imperial Guard came over."

   "Only a small body of the British piquet was there to oppose 'em, and they held on gallantly, but were forced back inch by inch, fighting hard. The English and French squadrons charged one another by turns; and when our men were joined by a few of the 3rd Dragoons, they all went at the enemy with such Desperate Valour as to break through their front squadron, and to be surrounded by the French. Nothing daunted, they charged back as fiercely, and broke through again, and so got 'emselves quick out of that scrape."

   "Then they rallied and formed up anew, and made another charge, supported by the 10th Hussars. The French bolted before ever they cᵈ get up with 'em, and fled through the river, hard pressed by our brave fellows. A lot of prisoners were taken, and among 'em is Marshal Lefébre Desnouettes, Duke of Dantzic—I say, doesn't Boney love dukes!—commander of the Imperial Guard. Pretty big haul, that!"

   "No question but the French fought with great valour, as was to be expected. General Lefébre says this same Guard at Austerlitz sent thirty thousand Russians flying. They didn't send our dragoons flying yesterday, though. 'Twas just about the other way."

   "And now for what you and Polly will like best to hear."

   "Lefébre was awfully down in the mouth at being taken prisoner, and at his men being beaten back. He counts himself a ruined man, for, says he, 'Buonaparte never forgives the unfortunate.' Sir John was all kindness to the poor chap. Lefébre had a slight wound in the head; and the first thing that Sir John did was not only to try his best to comfort him, but to send for water, and with his own hands to wash the wound! Can't you picture the way it was done? Wasn't it like Moore?"

   "Well, and it so happened that Jack was in luck, having been asked to dine at the General's. So he came in for a scene which, I shᵈ conjecture, has scarce been matched since the days of the Black Prince."

   "Just before they took their seats, Sir John turned to the French General, who had appeared in a blazing uniform, and asked him, was there anything he wanted? And Lefébre said never a word, but looked down to where his sword ought to have been, that was taken away by the private who made him surrender. Then he looked up at Sir John in a meaning way."

   "In one instant Moore had unbuckled his own sword—'twas a fine Eastern scimitar—and had given it to Lefébre. I wish you cᵈ have heard Jack and Captain Napier describe it all—the graceful way in which the thing was done, and, beyond everything, the wonderful look of kindness and 'soldier-like sympathy' on Sir John's face. Napier tried to describe it to me, and finished off with 'It was perfectly beautiful! But when does Moore ever do anything that is not perfect?'"

   "Take good heed, mind you, that no word of this goes beyond yourselves, and above all on no account risk that it shᵈ find its way into print. For yourselves 'tis a tale worth remembering of one who is the very Flower of Chivalry in modern days."

   "George Napier is, as Polly knows, Jack's friend, aide-de-camp to Sir John, and brother to Major Charles Napier of the 50th, and to William Napier of the 43rd."

CHAPTER XXXVII

A VISIT FROM MOORE BY NIGHT

ON January the 5th, at Constantino, much fighting took place, and in the evening a heavy trouble fell upon Roy and Bob.

Jack was missing!

All searching failed to show where he was; all inquiries were without result.

Among the sick and wounded went Roy and Bob together, and they went in vain. On the field amid the slain, accompanied by Jack's friend, George Napier, they hunted long in the moonlight, but with no success. As they turned up face after face of those who had fallen, finding not Jack's familiar features, a low-breathed "Thank God!" again and again escaped Roy. The only explanation seemed to be that Jack had been taken prisoner.

At Lugo the whole army was halted. The march thither had been very severe, through deep mud and pelting rain, with great fatigue and suffering. Collision here again came about between the English and the French; and Moore in person led his troops, sending the enemy flying, and handling them as they fled in a manner not to be quickly forgotten.

Then, during a two days' pause, he challenged the French to battle; and hardly was his intention known before the British Army presented, as by magic, a totally changed look. Stragglers came hurrying in; the ranks were filled up; and weary, footsore, shoeless, half-starved men were one and all in the highest spirits, eager for a fight.

But though the English were by this time reduced to only nineteen thousand—three thousand having gone by another route to Vigo, and many having fallen out by the way—yet Soult with his far superior numbers did not respond. Lack of provisions made it impossible for Moore to delay longer; and however willing he was to fight, he would not himself force a battle.

While in the neighbourhood of Lugo, Roy found time to add a few words to his unfinished letter:—

   "Jan. 7th, near Lugo.—We had a sharp brush with the enemy; and I am sorely put about, for Jack has vanished. When last I set eyes on him he was well in advance of his company, waving his sword, and shouting to us to come on. And come on we did, and put the enemy to rout. Jack may have fallen into their hands. Bob and I, with Napier, searched in every direction, both among those who were wounded and those that had been killed. But, thank God! Jack was not among them. He must, therefore, surely be prisoner. This sheet I will not send off, even should opportunity occur, until I can know more as to Jack. I would not awake Polly's fears for nought; and it may be that he will even yet turn up, unharmed."

Roy wrote these words by the light of a small lamp, lying flat upon the ground, in a small hut which he and Bob occupied while at Lugo. Some slight movement, as of one coming in, made him glance up with a spring of hope. It might be only Bob, but he still thought first of Jack.

A tall cloaked figure quietly entered. Roy leaped to his feet as if he had had an electric shock, his bewildered gaze encountering the last face that he would at that moment have expected to see. It was a face pale, tried, and stern, with the dark steadfast eyes which never yet had flinched before life's battles. They did not flinch now, meeting this heaviest of all trials to one of Moore's temperament—having to retire before his Country's foes.

The last three years had brought sharp discipline to John Moore. Strain had followed strain, disappointment had followed disappointment; while through all his dauntless courage had never failed, his unconquerable spirit had risen superior to every opposition. But the sufferings of his men upon this march went to his very heart; and the partial loss of discipline, in a force of which he had been so justly proud, cut him to the quick. Despite the worst, he was not calm only, but serene. Yet now and again, as at this moment, a shadow of deep though fleeting sadness would fall upon him. Something in that face appealed keenly to the young Ensign's sympathies.

Then, in a flash, dread seized upon Roy. What might this call portend? Moore could rebuke his subordinates scathingly, crushingly, when necessity arose. Roy felt that death would be far preferable to any words of stern reproof from those lips. But he was distinctly not conscious of having failed in his duty. Could it perhaps mean—ill news of Jack?

Sir John glanced round before speaking.

"Not too luxurious quarters, Baron!" he remarked, and his smile lacked its usual brilliance.

Sir John glanced round before speaking.

"Good enough, sir," responded Roy, with the prompt cheerfulness which from the first had marked him out in Moore's eyes. "If only Captain Keene—"

"Ay. You are anxious about him!"

"Yes, sir; I've been able to find out nothing."

"So Napier tells me. As I was passing this way, I have looked in to set your mind at rest. He is prisoner."

Roy drew one hasty breath. Till that moment he had not realised how heavily the fear had weighed upon him of other than imprisonment. To know that Jack was still in the land of the living meant much. Jack had been very good to Roy.

"Two French prisoners brought in this afternoon have told us about him. His leg was wounded, and his right arm broken, and when helpless he was taken. Already, they say, he has been sent some distance beyond their lines."

"Thank you, sir," gratefully. "I'm glad to know. It might have been worse."

"You are writing home, perhaps? Make light of his wounds. I hope he is not in any danger."

"Yes, sir. I am writing to my sister—ready for a chance of sending it."

Moore stood for a few seconds lost in deep thought. Then, glancing up, he met the concerned gaze of Roy's frank grey eyes. Not frank only, not concerned only, but full of unmistakable boyish adoration. In response Moore's hand was laid upon Roy's arm, with one of those quick gestures of overflowing kindness which went far to enthral the hearts of those about him.

"I hear no report of you but what is good. Keep on as you have begun. You are treading worthily in Ivor's steps."

Roy's power of speech failed him, with something which went far beyond any ordinary joy. This—from Moore himself! Despite Jack's misfortunes, Roy's world grew instantly radiant.

Moore smiled again at the boy's look, yet he sighed. There were some in his force, and not young fellows only, of whom he could not have spoken in such terms,—some who gave the rein to bitter discontent at having to retreat, and who did not do their utmost to preserve discipline. But they were not in the Reserve.

"We may hear of Keene again before long. Give your letter to Napier, and it shall go with the first despatches that are sent on."

Then he was gone. Roy, after seeing him off, returned to his former position, and wrote for Molly's delight those priceless words, which never in after life could be forgotten by him. If only Denham might have known what Moore thought of "his friend Roy!"

One more brief entry was made in the same letter before it could be sent off:—

   "Jan. 10, Betanzos.—We came hither by a night-march from Lugo, thus evading the French, who would seem to have been somewhat awed by Sir John's fearless defiance of 'em at Lugo. For some hours our rearguard was not harassed as usual, and the enemy's advanced guard did not get up with us till twenty-four hours or more after our start. Since we left our camp-fires burning, they doubtless did not know till dawn that we had given them the slip. It may be, too, that after what had passed they were in no such vast hurry to follow."

The day after Roy had written these words Coruña was reached.

As they drew near to the coast, Moore, quitting his post with the Reserve, went forward, passing regiment after regiment, and anxiously scanning the distant sea for the transports which he hoped to find awaiting him.

But they were not there.

During the greater part of a fortnight he had been incessantly at work, conducting this most arduous retreat, bringing his Army through dangers and difficulties innumerable. Perpetual fighting had been the order of the day. Yet not once had the regiments of the Reserve, either horse or foot, been beaten; not once had the rearguard quailed.

Seventy or eighty thousand soldiers, trained veterans of Napoleon, at first under Napoleon himself, and then under two of his most experienced commanders, had striven hard to overtake Moore, to outflank him, to cut off his little force of twenty-three thousand men; but they had been baffled.

More than two hundred and fifty miles of rough country had been traversed in bleakest wintry weather; and the Army reached Coruña, somewhat lessened in numbers, it is true, yet absolutely unbroken.

Baggage had had to be abandoned or destroyed for lack of means to convey it further, and a few small cannon had had to be left behind for that same reason. But not one single British gun had been captured in fight; not one single standard or military trophy of any kind had been taken.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

THE BATTLE OF CORUÑA

WELL might Moore cast anxious glances towards the harbour of Coruña, where the vessels from Vigo should have been. They had been delayed by contrary winds, and their failure to arrive in time was a most serious matter. The British Army, brought thus far in safety, would lie without the means of escape in a narrow trap, between Scylla and Charybdis, hemmed in by the pitiless ocean on one side, by the ever-increasing hordes of the enemy on the other.

With unfaltering courage he at once set himself to examine the position, assigning the troops to various quarters, some in the town of Coruña, some in villages hard by. A range of hills, three or four miles off, would have been the right line of defence; but Moore had not men enough to occupy it. He saw at once that, should he attempt to do so, the French might turn his flank and cut him off from embarkation.

That post of vantage had to be left to the foe. Moore was obliged to content himself with a lower ridge, nearer to the walls, which was with all speed put into a state of defence.

A short rest was given to the soldiers; new muskets and ammunition were-supplied; and the officers strenuously exerted themselves to restore discipline. But this was no longer difficult. When once the Army stood at bay, facing the foe, every trace of insubordination vanished.

So desperate did the condition of things seem to be for the English, with the transports not yet come, and with a greatly superior force occupying a greatly superior position, that, though Moore's heart never failed him, the hearts of some did sink at this juncture, even of brave men, high in rank.

Moore called no council of war; he asked no man's opinion. But certain of his Generals ventured to offer unsought advice. They put before him the extreme unlikelihood that they could long resist an enemy coming down upon them from the heights. They pictured the heavy loss of life which must result from any attempt to embark on the transports during such attacks. Then they suggested that, since affairs had reached so perilous a stage, it might be well to send a flag of truce to Soult, asking permission, on honourable terms, to depart unmolested.

Moore disdainfully flung the counsel from him, without an instant's parley. Capitulate! Never! If the French came on, let them come! He would fight to the last! The Generals bowed to his fiery decision, and said no more.

Coruña had been reached on the 11th of January, and all through the 12th Moore was hard at work, preparing for the battle which might be fought. Everything was thought of; every possible precaution was taken. He reviewed the troops, and by his own splendid confidence and dauntless air he breathed fresh energy into their jaded ranks.

Indomitable though he was, the strain of the last few weeks had told upon him heavily. At daybreak he was once more in the saddle, reconnoitering the enemy's camp, and visiting every part of his own; but before midday he came back to Headquarters, utterly exhausted.

Rest had become a necessity before he could do more; and for two hours prostration had the upper hand. Then he rallied, sat up, called for paper, and in his terse easy modern English, singularly free from the tricks of expression peculiar to his time, he wrote his last despatch.

Next day, the 14th, some cannonading took place; but the French did not move. They were still concentrating their forces, having suffered greatly, like the British, in those terrible marches.

In the evening, at last, the transports appeared; and all next day the embarkation of the sick and wounded, as well as of the cavalry, was going on. Around Coruña, Moore had found, cavalry could be of little use.

By noon on the 16th everything was in train. Unless they should be attacked by Soult, the whole British Army would be on board that night. Moore placed all arrangements for the embarkation in the hands of Colonel Anderson; and again he went off to review his troops, finding them in excellent order and in the highest spirits.

To a man they wished for nothing better than a battle. That question, however, was left to Soult for decision. No matter how intensely Moore himself might long for a victory over the enemy, he still would not make a first move. He knew well that, in the then condition of Spain, even a battle won could do little practical good to the cause in hand. It might cover his name with glory. But from first to last a higher aim than glory for self had been before Moore's eyes.

Between fourteen and fifteen thousand infantry now remained on land, to oppose the twenty thousand already entrenched on the opposite heights; and further French reinforcements were constantly arriving. Moore's cannon were far inferior to those of the French, alike in number and in weight of metal. The French guns, moreover, dominated the English position.

At two o'clock, as Moore was on his way to the outposts, a messenger came from General Hope, to inform him that the enemy "was getting under arms;" and radiant delight glowed in his eyes when he found that a battle was to be forced upon him. He spoke his gladness, regretting only that the lateness of the hour, upon a short winter's day, would hardly leave him time to make the most of that victory which he expected to win.

Then he spurred away, full gallop, to the field. Soon the roar of cannon told that action was begun; and in a little while, along the whole front, both armies were hotly engaged.

Upon the main ridge of the English position Moore had placed two divisions, Baird's on the right, Hope's on the left. A third division, that of Fraser, occupied high ground well in rear of the right, to prevent any possibility of the French making their way to Coruña by a road which ran in that direction, and so cutting off the British force from the town.

Paget's division was held in reserve behind the ridge; and here for a while Roy chafed impatiently, fearing to have no share in the fighting that day. Even had it been so, the Reserve would have had small cause to complain, since they had borne the lion's share of danger during the retreat. But their turn was to come.

The first and heaviest brunt of the onset fell upon Baird's division, more especially upon the 4th Regiment, the 50th, which was commanded by Charles Napier and Charles Stanhope, and the 42nd Highlanders.

With their usual vehement swiftness the French advanced in separate columns against the right, the left, and the centre of the British line; while another powerful column sought to pass, as Moore had foreseen, down the valley which lay between Baird's and Fraser's divisions, towards Coruña; and yet a fifth column waited in reserve.

But the peril of that fourth column's advance was no sooner seen than it was met. The right wing of the 4th British Regiment, on the extreme right of the ridge, was promptly thrown back, so as to take in flank the adventurous French column which was seeking thus boldly to turn the English position; and into the column was poured a crushing fire.

Moore, alert, cool, intent, watching every movement, called out, "That was exactly what I wanted to be done!"

Nor was this all. General Paget, with his Reserve, advanced upon the column, and doubled it completely up.

Roy had his chance then, and he used it. His was the honour of bearing the King's Colour belonging to his regiment. The Royal and the Regimental Colours are, as we know, always consecrated with religious ceremony at the time of presentation; and they are looked upon with the most intense pride and veneration by every British soldier. Not least were they so regarded by Roy Baron.

Right proudly he carried his Royal burden, exposing himself with all that reckless gallantry which is natural to the British officer. He pressed forward with an energy which carried him well to the front, even in that rushing tide of resolute men. They clashed with the solid column in fierce shock; and by "the conquering violence" of Paget's charge, the French, already shaken by the heavy flanking fire they had received, were brought to a standstill. They began to waver, to turn, and to retreat; and the retreat soon quickened into flight.

Yet the fighting continued; and as the British still swept like a whirlwind onward, groups of Frenchmen would turn and resist, vainly striving to stem that irresistible Anglo-Saxon torrent.

Roy found himself and his charge an object of especial attack by some half-dozen furious Frenchmen, maddened to be once again, as through the fortnight past, repelled by this invincible foe. All around Roy were fighting hard. He gripped the staff with his left hand, and guarded it valiantly, using his sword right and left to very good purpose. Mere lad though he was, more than one of the enemy went down before those vigorous thrusts.

With the vain hope of capturing the Colour, a French officer rode into the mêlée, and his sabre descended in one swift sweep. Roy saw the coming stroke, but his guard was only in time to ward off the blow aimed at his head.

The blade slashed deep into his right arm, near the shoulder, and Roy's sword fell from powerless fingers.

By this time a dozen comrades had closed round the Colour, and a dozen British swords and bayonets were at work. The French officer paid for his gallantry with his life. Roy was again pressing onward, hardly realising that he was wounded, till he found a crimson stream flowing over him, and felt his knees falter with a sense of overpowering weakness.

"Go back, Baron. You've done bravely," the Colonel's voice said at his side, in tones of approval. "Sergeant Grey will take the colour."

Roy tried to say cheerily, "No, sir, it's nothing—I'm all right—" but the words somehow refused to come, and the battlefield seemed to be receding to a vast distance. He was vaguely conscious that his precious burden had gone into somebody else's hands, and that the regiment had passed on at the double, leaving him behind. Then he came out of a mist, his ears buzzing, and his head going round.

For a moment he fancied himself back in a little French cottage, deep in a wood, with Jean Paulet by his side. "Thank you, Jean—I'm all right," he said faintly.

But the roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the shouts of charging soldiers, dispersed that dream. He opened his eyes to find himself lying on the ground. One of his men, Private Foster, was busily fastening a rough-and-ready bandage round his arm.

"Think you'll do now, sir? It don't bleed so much. Only a flesh wound, but it's gone pretty deep."

"O I'm all right." Roy managed this time to say the words clearly. "I wish I could have kept up with them. Are you hurt?"

"Only my foot, sir. The Colonel told me I was to look after you. He said you was to go to the town."

Roy was beginning to be aware of pretty sharp pain in the slashed arm. It was his first wound, and he might be excused for certain sick sensations, having fought as pluckily as an Englishman may. He pulled himself to a sitting posture, and looked round. The regiments of the Reserve were by this time far ahead, literally sweeping the whole valley clear of the shattered remnants, which but a short space back had formed a powerful column.

Roy waved his cap over his head with his left hand, and gave vent to a hearty though rather faint "Hurrah!"

"I think I can walk now all right," he said. "Don't mind about me, Foster. Your foot is bad."

"I can hobble a bit, sir. I'd sooner see you on your way. You'd maybe get the bandage wrong, and set it bleeding afresh." Roy's men were not a little fond of him.

And the two set off together on a long and painful trudge to Coruña.

Meanwhile, Sir John Moore, satisfied that all would go well in the valley, turned his attention elsewhere.

The French attack was directed with greatest force against the three regiments already named as posted upon the right of the ridge. Their piquets, which occupied the little village of Elvina beyond the ridge, were driven in by the force of the enemy's onset, and Elvina for a time fell into the hands of the French.

This could not be allowed, and orders were given that the 42nd and the 50th should expel the foe from the village. Moore, always to be found at the point of greatest danger, was at hand. His voice could now be heard to ring out in his characteristic challenge—

"Highlanders—remember Egypt!"

Like greyhounds from the leash, in response to those beloved tones, they leaped to the charge, carrying everything before them. Moore, in his passionate ardour, charged with them, and he told the men that he was "well pleased" with their conduct.

Before Moore appeared, the officers and men of the 50th Regiment—ordered to advance with the 42nd—had been eagerly looking out for him, realising that this would be the crux of the English position, and feeling one and all that "under him they could not be beaten—" that, if only Moore were present, victory was absolutely secure. "Where is he? Where is the General?" was heard in restless murmurs along the line.

As they asked the question he came, bearing down upon them at headlong speed on his cream-coloured charger, a fiery animal, with flying black mane and tail tossed in the breeze. The force with which Sir John reined in flung him forward almost upon the horse's neck, while his head was thrown back, and he examined the enemy with a gaze of such extraordinary and searching intensity, that Charles Napier, in after years, seeking to picture the scene, could find no language with which he might fitly describe that look.

Without a word Moore then galloped off, but he soon returned; and hereabouts it was that, as he was speaking to Major Napier, a round shot from the heavy French guns on the height struck the ground between them.

Both horses swerved sharply, but Moore instantly urged his back to the same spot, asking calmly if Napier were hurt, and receiving a quiet "No, sir."

Then, while he watched the spirited charge of the 50th Regiment, led by Napier and Stanhope, he exclaimed—"Well done, Fiftieth! Well done, my Majors!"

The French were driven out of Elvina with heavy loss, both regiments pursuing them beyond the village into ground much broken by stone walls. By this time the British were without supports; and the French, having received strong reinforcements, rallied and turned upon them with fresh fury. Napier went too far in advance of his men, received five wounds, and was taken prisoner; and Stanhope was killed.

Moore, grappling with the danger, hurried up a battalion of the Guards to reinforce the 50th, which was being slowly forced back, and the 42nd, which had come to an end of its powder and shot. He galloped to the latter regiment, and again his voice rang out with inspiring energy—

"My brave 42nd, join your comrades. The ammunition is coming. And you have your bayonets still!"

That was enough. The 42nd had thought that it was being relieved by the Guards; but armed or unarmed, the men would have gone anywhere for Moore. Once again without ammunition, yet undaunted, with fierce impetuosity they dashed against the foe.

Both here and throughout the line fighting raged furiously. In all directions the British were holding their own, and signs of approaching victory were clear.

Those signs came true. A little later, and the French were driven well beyond Elvina. On the left of the British position they not only were repulsed with very severe loss, but were attacked in their own position by the conquering English, and were followed even into the villages beyond their ridge.

But before matters had advanced thus far, and while the 50th and the 42nd were still hard beset and strenuously resisting—something else happened, of terrible import to England.

Captain Hardinge came up to report to Sir John that the Guards were advancing. And as he spoke the words, as he pointed out the position of the Guards—a round shot from the battery opposite struck Moore, hurling him to the ground.

CHAPTER XXXIX

MOORE'S LAST VICTORY

IN an instant Sir John Moore half raised himself, gazing still with concentrated earnestness, as if nothing had happened, towards the Highland regiment, now hotly engaged. Not a sigh was heard. Not a muscle in his face quivered.

Hardinge had sprung down, and Moore's right hand grasped his firmly. When Hardinge, seeing his anxiety for the 42nd, exclaimed, "They are advancing—" Moore's eyes brightened into their fullest radiance.

Then Colonel Graham hurried to the spot. So placid and unchanged was the General's look, that for a moment he hoped it might be no more than an accidental fall from his horse. The next moment he saw—and he rode off at utmost speed for a surgeon.

It was an awful wound. Almost the whole left shoulder was carried away; the arm was all but separated from the body; the ribs over that intrepid heart were broken; the flesh and muscles were fearfully torn and mangled. Hardinge made an attempt with his sash to check the flow of blood; but with so extensive an injury little could be done.

Moore was then gently lifted upon a blanket; and all the while he still intently watched the struggle, as if his own state were a matter of no importance.

For a moment his attention was recalled from the front. His sword became entangled when the soldiers moved him, and the hilt went into the wound. Captain Hardinge began to unbuckle it, but he was at once checked, Moore saying in his usual voice, with calm distinctness—

"It is as well as it is. I had rather it should go out of the field with me."

So extraordinary was his composure, that Hardinge began to hope, even against hope, that the wound might after all prove not to be mortal—that the General might even yet be spared to his country. He faltered something of the kind; and Moore turned from gazing at the battle to inspect gravely his own injuries.

"No, Hardinge, I feel that to be impossible," he replied. "You need not go with me. Report to General Hope that I am wounded, and carried to the rear."

He was slowly borne towards Coruña, a sergeant and ten soldiers of the Guards and of the 42nd being told off for this service. Two surgeons came hastening to meet him. They had been engaged with the arm of his next in command, Sir David Baird, which was badly shattered; but on hearing what had happened to his chief, Baird hurried them off, and they left his arm half dressed. Moore, who was losing blood rapidly, observed; "You can be of no service to me. Go to the wounded soldiers—you may be of use to them." But this unselfish order could not be obeyed.

Again and again in their sad progress he desired a halt, that he might watch what was going on, and might listen to the fainter sound of the enemy's musketry, as the French were driven back.

Presently they were overtaken by a spring wagon, containing a wounded officer; and here again a slight pause took place, during which Roy Baron joined the mournful cavalcade, not yet knowing what it meant.

A question put by the officer in the wagon, "Who was that in the blanket?" brought an answer which sent a sickening shock through Roy's whole frame.

Would not Sir John like to be placed in the wagon? The officer earnestly suggested this. Moore did not refuse, but he looked at one of the Highlanders, and asked his opinion—would the wagon or the blanket be best? The man advised the latter. "It will not shake you so much, sir," he said; "and we can keep step, and carry you more easy."

"I think so too," Sir John quietly said, and they went on their way as before. By this time the hardy Guardsmen and Highlanders who carried him were one and all in tears.

Roy came close to the younger of the two surgeons, with whom he was slightly acquainted, and murmured, "Wounded!"

"Badly," was the low answer.

"But not—not—He'll get over it!"

Roy knew what the silence meant. After a break, the surgeon said, "We have not examined the wound yet. You are hurt."

"It's nothing. Just a cut. But that he—that he—"

The surgeon looked in pity on that boyish face of despair.

"You'd better keep with us, Baron. I'll patch you up by and by. Don't give in. Things may be better than we fear."

For a moment Roy had been in danger of collapsing. This suggestion revived his failing energies; and he kept steadily up with the little procession till the streets of Coruña were reached. Before the door of Moore's house the bearers paused. Colonel Anderson, the devoted friend and comrade of Sir John through twenty-one years past, met them outside, speechless with distress. This was the third time that he had seen Moore carried, wounded, from a field of battle; and it was the last.

Moore pressed his hand tightly. "Anderson, don't leave me," he murmured, and the words reached Roy, as he came close behind. An appealing glance at the surgeon brought a whispered response, "Yes; come in."

Then, as Moore's faithful French servant, Francois, appeared, in blank horror, with fast-dropping tears, Moore smiled.

"Mon ami, this is nothing," he said.

Roy crept silently to a corner of the room, in which Moore was laid upon a mattress. He felt crushed with the blow, bodily weak, mentally hopeless. That Moore should die seemed to his young spirit to be the end of everything. And from the look on the faces around, from Moore's own ineffable serenity, he read the truth, even before the surgeons had fully examined the wound. It needed no long examination. Medical science had no power to grapple with such injuries as the cannon-ball had worked.

During the process Roy crouched down, his face hidden. Presently his arm was touched by the friendly surgeon.

"Come into the next room, Baron."

"I can't go away," muttered Roy.

"You shall come back. I want to take a look at your arm."

They were near the door, and Roy submitted, caring little at the moment whether his own hurts were great or small. He bore the surgeon's handling without a wince.

"Nothing serious, I'm glad to find. A clean cut, and you'll soon be right again. The loss of blood makes you feel a trifle queer, of course."

Roy crept once more silently into the room. He passed near enough to the mattress to receive one last kind glance and smile, which all but broke him down. But by this time Moore's agony had become so overwhelming, that he was unable to speak, and his face had grown deathly pale. Colonel Anderson from first to last remained close by his side, supporting him as he lay.

After a while he so far mastered the torture as to utter one short sentence after another, at intervals.

"Anderson, you know that I have always wished to die in this way," came first. As the officers of his staff appeared, one by one, he put the same question to each, "Are the French beaten?"

Next, with unconscious pathos, read now in the light of after misrepresentations—

"I hope the people of England will be satisfied! I hope my Country will do me justice."

Presently there was the thought of his own relatives.

"Anderson—you will see my friends, as soon as you can. Tell them—everything. Say to my mother—"

For the first time self-control failed. His voice broke, and his features were strongly agitated. The love between that son and that mother had been of no common kind. He was utterly unable to give the message that he wished, and he turned to another subject.

"Hope—Hope—I have much to say to him—but—cannot get it out. Are Colonel Graham and all my aides-de-camp safe?"

Anderson hastily signed to others not to tell him that one of the latter had been dangerously wounded, knowing well the great affection which existed between Moore and his whole staff. The question was evaded.

He then mentioned that he had made his will, and had in it remembered his servants. "Colbourne has my will—and all my papers," he said. And when Major Colbourne came in, Moore greeted him with exceeding kindness, turning to say with difficulty to Sir John Hope, "Hope, go to the Duke of York, and say he ought to give Colbourne a regiment."

He asked again, "Were the French beaten?"

"In every direction," he was told.

"It's a great satisfaction for me to know we have beaten the French," he remarked. "Is Paget in the room?"

Anderson replied in the negative.

"Remember me to him. It is General Paget I mean. He is a fine fellow."

A little later came the words, "I feel myself so strong—I fear I shall be long dying. It is great uneasiness—it is great pain."

This was the only approach to a complaint which passed those patient lips. But the strength of which he spoke was that of the indomitable will, not of the shattered body; for already life was ebbing fast, and the shadows were closing around.

Yet surely for him, beyond the shadows, waited a Light Divine!

He met the last enemy as he had met his earthly foes, as indeed he had ofttimes faced the former, with unshaken composure and without dread, no more startled by the summons than if he had been called upon to cross the English Channel. And, as always, his thoughts were for others, not for himself.

Some grateful words were addressed to the surgeons, thanking them for their efforts to give him ease. He spoke kindly to two more aides-de-camp who came in. One of these was Captain James Stanhope, brother to Charles Stanhope killed that day, and to Lady Hester Stanhope, Moore's friend. Stanhope's eyes met those of the dying soldier, and Moore said distinctly—

"Stanhope—remember me to your sister."

This was his last utterance. He sank into silence, pressing the hand of Anderson closely to his side. A few minutes later, calmly and without a struggle, the grand spirit triumphed over death and passed away.

And in that still chamber might be heard the sounds of smothered convulsive weeping. The younger officers present broke utterly down, while the elder men looked on with bowed heads, scarcely better able to restrain their anguish; and Roy's sobs mingled with those of the rest.

It was a scene that he could never in all his after life forget. Colonel Anderson still knelt, supporting the lifeless head, and gazing with parted lips into that quiet face, which for twenty-one years had been the centre and the illumination of his being; his look of woe beyond the power of words to describe. On the other side of the mattress, one in sorrow with all these mourning Englishmen, was the faithful and devoted Francois. French by birth, he cared for little in the world besides this idolised master, over whom he despairingly hung, his hands clasped together, his face matching in pallor those placid features.

For one of the noblest of men was gone from their midst that hour; and a heavy shadow fell upon the victorious British Army.

"Dark lay the field of slain; the battle's strife was o'er,
 That shook Coruña's hills, and rent the Iberian shore;
 Dim twilight veiled the scene of glory and of death,
    Till o'er the blood-stained snow
    The moon, pale, trembling, slow,
    Revealed each crimson wreath."

"Low on the victor-field the Warrior Chief was laid;
 His eye still sought the foe, his hand still grasped the blade;
 Triumphant was his smile, though dim his closing eye—
    While bending o'er the slain,
    His mournful gallant train
    Learnt how the brave should die."

     *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *

"No sculptured trophy rose to deck his honoured head,
 Or monumental urn, to mark the Mighty Dead;
 No lettered scroll to point the pilgrim soldier's way—
    The musing foe to greet,
    And guide his wandering feet
    To where the warrior lay."

"But o'er his loved remains were choicest honours shed,
 Tears such as Heroes weep bedewed his lowly bed;
 A deep responsive sigh from Albion's woe-struck isle
    Swelled o'er the Atlantic wave,
    And decked his early grave—
    Who for his Country fought, who for his Country fell!" ¹

¹ Written in memory of Moore by William Stark of Edinburgh in 1813.

CHAPTER XL

A WARRIOR TAKING HIS REST

THE rapid fall of darkness made it difficult to pursue the enemy, who at every point had been worsted. General Hope, knowing that large reinforcements might be expected to arrive soon in the French camp, decided to carry out Sir John Moore's plan of immediate embarkation.

At ten o'clock that night the march began, brigade after brigade leaving the field of battle, and silently going on board one transport after another. So complete had been all previous arrangements, that, by morning light, almost the whole British Army was on board.

Meanwhile, anxious consultation had taken place as to what should be done with the beloved remains of the Commander. Colonel Anderson settled the question by stating that Moore had often told him his wish—"if he ever fell in battle, to be buried where he had fallen." It was decided that a grave should be dug on the rampart of the Coruña citadel.

At midnight the body was reverently borne into the citadel, by Colonel Graham, Major Colbourne, and the aides-de-camp. For a few hours it lay in Colonel Graham's room.

In the early morning firing was heard. It was then determined not to put off the funeral any longer, lest a fresh attack should be impending, and the officers should be compelled to hasten away before paying the last honours to their Chief.

Jack's friend, George Napier, had arrived upon the sad scene of the night before, just when all was over—too late for any of those last words, which would have been to him a lifelong treasure. After Anderson and Francois, probably none present grieved more bitterly than George Napier. But when he found Roy sobbing hopelessly in the corner of the room, he took him away, and let him stay in his own quarters. And when the funeral took place Roy was allowed to be one of the party in attendance.

Not at dead of night, but at eight o'clock in the chill morning of a January day, and in the grave prepared by his own men, Sir John Moore was laid. No coffin could be procured. The body had not been undressed. He wore still the General's uniform in which he had fought his last battle, and—

"He lay like a warrior taking his rest,
   With his martial cloak around him."

That same cloak, in which but a few days earlier, he had visited Roy in the little hut at Lugo—had laid his kind hand upon the boy's arm—had spoken never to be forgotten words of praise—had smiled upon him—

Roy dared not let himself think of all this. Burning, blinding tears forced their way to his eyes—and not to his only,—as he gazed his last upon that perfect face, in its pale, sublime repose.

Moore was carried by the "Officers of the Family," who would allow no other hands to do for him these last sad services. The Burial Service was read by the Chaplain. And what was in the hearts of them all has been told, in words that cannot be improved upon, by that noble Elegy which is Moore's best monument:—

"We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
   And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
 That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
   And we far away on the billow."

"Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
   And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—
 But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
   In the grave where a Briton has laid him."

"Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
   From the field of his fame fresh and gory,
 We carved not a line and we raised not a stone,
   But we left him alone with his glory." ¹

Every man in the Army had lost a friend that day; and many a one besides Roy felt with passionate grief that the world, without John Moore in it, would be for him a changed place thenceforward.

Hard things were spoken of him after he was gone; and upbraidings indeed were uttered—not by the brave foe, who honoured Moore, and wished to raise a stone to his memory, but by an ungrateful section of his own countrymen, because, forsooth, with an army of twenty-three thousand men, he had not met and crushed two hundred thousand. We know better now. In the cold clear light of history such fogs are driven away.

Yet, even in these later days, have we made enough of the name of John Moore?

¹ By the Rev. C. Wolfe, about 1817.

Have we thought enough of the man, of whom Napoleon in the zenith of his fame could declare that he was the only General left, fit to contend with himself?—and against whose twenty-three thousand men he counted it needful to bring in a fierce rush over eighty thousand, failing even then in his purpose? Have we thought enough of the man, under whom the future Wellington wished nothing better than to serve?—and about whose "towering fame" the sober historian of the Peninsular War wrote in terms of unstinted praise? Have we thought enough of the man who, while the bravest of the brave, was also the most blameless and the most beloved of men; against whom Detraction had no word to utter, save that he stood up almost too strenuously for his Country's honour, and that he did not accomplish impossibilities?

If not, it is surely time that his countrymen should begin to "do him justice!"

But for that fatal cannon-ball—who can say?—would Wellington have become the foremost man in Europe, or would he have been second to Moore? It might have been Moore, not Wellington, who turned the tide of Napoleon's success? ¹ It was Moore who stemmed that tide, with his spirited counter-march and splendid retreat, drawing the enemy after him, until he stood at bay upon the coast, and hurled back the onset of the flower of Napoleon's army.

¹ These sentences were written before Lord Wolseley's speech at Dumfries, in 1898, in which he was reported as having said—"There could be little doubt in the minds of most soldiers who knew what Moore did, that, had he not been killed at the Battle of Coruña, he would have been the great Commander who led the Peninsular War; and it was quite possible that that great man, whom they all worshipped, the Duke of Wellington, would not have been heard of. He did not say that to depreciate the services of the Duke of Wellington, who had been a rock of strength to this country. But, possibly, had Sir John Moore lived, his name would have been blazoned on the scroll of fame as the man who won the great battle which crushed Napoleon's power at Waterloo."

Of Moore's personal valour, of his indomitable courage, of his intense patriotism, no voice was ever heard in question. To his consummate generalship, his mingled audacity and calculation, this marvellous Retreat bore ample witness. But for many years it was not understood by the mass of the English people. Napoleon, Soult, and Ney gauged him far more truly than did the average Englishman of his day.

CHAPTER XLI

AT VERDUN ONCE MORE

As a heavy stone falling into a pond sends waves circling outward to a distance, so the death of Sir John Moore sent many a wave of sorrow to the hearts of men, north and south, east and west.

One such wave slowly found its way to the distant town of Verdun, where still languished the détenus taken captive in 1803, together with many prisoners of war on parole sent thither.

News in those days travelled with deliberation, and prisoners travelled with greater deliberation still. But a day arrived, though not till many weeks after the Battle of Coruña, when Jack Keene found himself within the ramparts of Verdun.

It was early spring, and he carried his right arm in a sling. When he moved, too, a distinct limp might be seen. He had just been to report himself at the citadel, and he now stood outside, meditating on his next move.

A young man, with a keen and clever face, passed him quickly, then pulled up, turning in his direction.

"I beg your pardon. You're English. Have you just arrived here?"

"Yes. Prisoner. You're English too. That's right," said Jack heartily.

"Can I be of any service to you? Have you friends in the place?"

"I hope so. Could you direct me to Colonel Baron's house, or lodgings?"

"Certainly. I know him well. My name is Curtis."

"Ah! I have heard that name from Roy Baron."

"Roy and I were great friends when he was here. Anything you can tell me about him will be welcome."

Curtis looked questioningly, and Jack answered the look.

"My name is Keene. Roy and I have been through the Campaign in Spain together. On the retreat I was wounded and taken prisoner."

Curtis held out his hand, to be grasped by Jack's left. "You have travelled all the way from Spain?"

"With a convoy of prisoners—yes. Been a good while about it too. First part of the way in a wagon, after that on horseback. Tell me how they are here. I have heard nothing lately."

"I'll come and show you the way. The Colonel keeps all right. Looks older than he used, that's all. Mrs. Baron is well. One fancied at the time that Roy's being sent to Bitche would kill her outright; but it didn't. Having to devote herself to Ivor was a mercy in disguise, I don't doubt. Kept her from dwelling on her own trouble. It was a vast relief to them all when the kind fellow who got Roy away came and told them he'd seen the boy safe on board a vessel for England. He was well rewarded by the Colonel, as you may suppose; not that he did it for reward. But, of course, we don't breathe a word about that in Verdun, for the fellow's own sake. Only, as I know them well, and as I know you belong to them—"

Jack made a gesture of assent. "Ivor was ill, was he not?"

"I dare say he would have been so anyhow, after that march from Valenciennes; but the arrest of Roy was a finishing stroke. You won't find him looking good for much now. I suppose hardly anything could have knocked him down like the death of Sir John Moore. It is a fearful loss to the country. No man living could have been worse spared."

Curtis paused, cast a glance at Jack, and changed the subject.

Presently they reached the house where still the Barons lived, as since their first arrival in Verdun.

"By the bye, I'm not sure whether you'll find them in," he said. "The Colonel said at appel that he was going to take Ivor, with his wife, for a drive in the country, hoping it might do him good. It was worth trying. But I think they must have returned before now."

"You're allowed to go where you will?"

"Why, no. Douceurs are efficacious, however. Will you let me show you the way upstairs?" Jack hesitated. "No—I understand. Of course you'd rather see them alone first; and I did not mean to go in. But you can't mistake the room. First landing, first door to the right."

Curtis vanished, and Jack, obeying the directions, came to a door slightly ajar. He pushed it wider, and went softly in.

It was a good-sized salon; empty, except for the presence of one man writing at a side-table. By build and bearing Jack recognised Ivor instantly; but finding himself unnoticed, he had a fancy not at once to make his presence known. He drew a few steps nearer, and then stood motionless. He had a very good side-view of the other.

Jack studied him gravely, recalling the splendid physique and health of the young Guardsman six years earlier. The physique was in a sense the same, and the fine carriage of head and shoulders remained unaltered; but the sharpened delicacy and pallor of the face impressed Jack painfully, as did a streak of grey hair above the temple, a stamp of habitual lassitude upon the brow, and the thinness of the strongly-made right hand, which moved the pen. Jack began dimly to understand what the long waiting and patience of these years had been.

Ivor seemed to become conscious of Jack's gaze. He laid down his pen, glanced round, and started up. "Jack! Is it possible?"

"Just arrived," remarked Jack, with an insouciance which he was far from feeling. "Come across Spain and France. Yes—wounded—but I'm getting all right. Always was a tough subject, you know."

"Where were you taken?"

"On the march, at Lugo. Two days off from Coruña. Got too far ahead of my men. Wounded in the leg first; then, as I was defending myself, a musket-ball broke my right arm. So I had to give in."

"You are lame still. Sit down. You a prisoner too! I hardly know how to believe it."

"Fortune of war, as our French friends would say. I've no right to complain. Had my share, though 'tis a shame to be cut off from more of it. Den, you are looking very far from well."

Denham did not heed the words. "What of Roy?" he asked. "We have had no home-news for ages."

"Roy is Ensign in my regiment. Didn't you know even that? Been with me through this Campaign. He and I were in the Reserve—under Moore!" —in a lower voice. "You have heard—?"

"No particulars. The fact of a battle at Coruña; and—Tell me all you can."

"You know that it was victory?"

"I know!" in a stirred deep tone. "Not from the papers. French papers never admit defeat. But—under him—how could it be otherwise?"

"It never was otherwise! Never once!"

Denham rested his face on both hands.

"Tell me all you know. We are cut off from everything here."

Jack's information was but partial. Before starting for France he had been kept by his wounds some time in the neighbourhood of Lugo, and thus a few details of that heroic death had filtered round to him. It was hard work for Jack to repeat them in a steady voice. Once Ivor raised his head, and the dumb white sorrow of his look all but overcame Jack's fortitude. Then Ivor returned to his former position, and Jack went on resolutely.

"That's about all," he said at length. "As much as I've heard yet .... He was his own grand self to the last! ... It was the death he would have chosen to die .... He always wished for it ... On the field, in the moment of victory! ... But the loss to us—to England! ... The best!—the noblest—!"

Jack could say no more. Silence followed.

"Soffit is a brave fellow. I heard that he was going to put up a memorial-stone—to him!"

Silence again. Denham had not stirred.

"He saved the Army and balked Napoleon. None except we who were there could know the true state of things—the hopeless inefficiency of the Spaniards. If he had had treble the number of men and enough money, England might have told a very different tale to-day. What could be done by mortal man, under such circumstances, he did."

Renewed silence. Jack watched the other seriously.

"You're not fit for any more of this. When did you hear last from home? So long! And you didn't know that Roy was in Spain? Smart young officer too. He came in more than once for particular notice." Jack found himself verging on another allusion to the name which filled their thoughts, and he turned to a fresh subject. "This Commandant of yours at Verdun—Wirion—must be a brute, judging from reports of him in the English papers."

"He—was."

"Not here now?"

"Courcelles is the present Commandant. Wirion went too far. There were some scandalous cases—young Englishmen fleeced to the tune of five thousand pounds."

"What a vile shame!"

"Some of us made a stir, and facts were carried to headquarters. Wirion was suspended, and he received a hint that he might as well put himself out of the way. He acted upon the hint."

"You mean that he—"

"Shot himself."

"Present man any improvement?"

"Oppressions are a degree more carefully veiled."

Denham lifted his face from his hands with a sudden movement. "What am I thinking about? You must be in want of food."

"No; it's all right. I went to a cafe on arrival. Your next meal is soon enough for me."

The absence of any inquiry after Polly was arousing Jack's wonder. At first, in the engrossing interest of that other subject, he had not so much noticed Denham's silence, but now each minute it grew more marked. Should he speak of Polly himself? No, that would not do. The first mention ought to be from Ivor. So Jack decided, not realising that his own silence might be misconstrued. Some questions as to his wounds followed. Denham had moved to the large arm-chair, and was leaning back with a spiritless look. Jack wondered anew, and at length he could not resist putting forth a slight feeler.

"Are there no folks at home of whom you would fain hear?"

Ivor took the hint, looked straight at him, and said—"Is Polly married yet?"

Jack's breath was taken away. He was like one who has received a slap in the face. This—from Ivor!

"Upon—my—word!" he ejaculated. "You are cool, Denham!"

"I have at least a right to ask the question."

For a moment Jack was very nearly in a passion, but the anger went down as fast as it had arisen.

"Of course you don't mean—But what in the wide world made you think of such a thing? Polly married! No; nor like to be!"

"I heard that she was engaged."

"To whom?"

"The Admiral's nephew—Peirce."

"Who told you the lie?"

"Then—it was a lie!"

"You might have known it. Who told you?"

"One whom I should have counted trustworthy."

"When did you hear the tale?"

"The year I was in Valenciennes."

Jack recalled Roy's description of Ivor's return from that absence, and he began to grasp the state of the case.

"When did you hear last from Polly herself?"

"Over two years ago. A letter which had been written before the date when she was said to have become engaged."

The last remnants of Jack's anger died out. Two years of silence following upon such a report!

"You have not writ yourself to Polly this great while?"

"How could I—not speaking of this? And—how speak of it, if it were not true?"

Silence again. Jack observed slowly, as he watched the other's colourless lips—

"Den, I'm going to be frank. 'Tis no case for half confidences. There was a time, I'll confess, when I had a doubt in my own mind of Polly's constancy. She's a pretty creature, and she has had an uncommon lot of admiration. But I wronged her, for she has been ever faithful to you, and she has cared for none other. And the night before I started for Spain she and I talked together, and she spoke out plainly. She said that if you but asked her to come to Verdun she would come, and gladly. She wondered, if indeed you cared for her still, that you had not so done."

A flush came, and Denham's hand was held hard against his forehead. "Never!" he said in a low voice.

"You would not wish to have her out?" incredulously.

"Never! If Polly were here, I might be taken from her in a week,—sent to a dungeon, leaving her unprotected."

"I see. Nay, that would not do. Polly and you must wait a while longer. But you will know now that she is waiting too."

"It might be better for her—not—" Denham broke off.

"Your head is not often like this, I hope?" Jack said, in a concerned tone.

"Not much respite lately."

"Have you had medical advice? Can nothing be done?"

"One infallible remedy, if it might be had."

"And that is—?"

"Freedom—and Home."

There was a short breath between the words which said much, for Denham was not given to sighing. Then voices outside told of the return of Colonel and Mrs. Baron. Denham stood up, murmured a hasty apology, and left the room.

"Poor fellow!" Jack said aloud.