Part 16 (1/2)

Jack Lorrimer was unbound, and led around to the side of the farmhouse.

They tied him to a halter-ring on the wall. Three times, he was given the chance of saving his life by treachery; and his only reply was: ”I'm done. d.a.m.n you--shoot!” The rifles were raised; there was a rattling volley, a drooping figure on the halter-cord, and the officer turned his attention to the others.

”Now then, the next.”

d.i.c.k Swinton and Nutt were lying side by side. Nutt had taken advantage of the interest excited by the execution to wriggle himself free of his loosely-tied fetters, which consisted of cords binding his wrists behind his back and pa.s.sed around to a knot on his breast. He called upon d.i.c.k to aid him. d.i.c.k Swinton rolled over, and with his teeth loosened the first knot, then fell back into the old position.

Nutt remained as though still bound.

d.i.c.k was next unbound, and led around the farmhouse. That was Nutt's opportunity. He saw them first drag away the dead body of Jack Lorrimer, and fling it on one side; then they thrust d.i.c.k back against the wall out of sight.

There was a pause while the firing party loaded their rifles. This was the moment chosen by Nutt for shaking off his bonds. He crawled a few yards, heard the appeal to d.i.c.k Swinton, and d.i.c.k's defiant refusal--then the order to fire, and the volley. He arose to his feet and ran.

All the men in the ravine were gone forward to repel the dreaded advance, and the path was moderately clear. He ran for dear life until he reached the firing line, where he seized a wounded soldier's rifle, and dropped down as though he were dead. Here, he remained until the firing line retreated slowly before the American advance, and he heard the tramp of feet and the bad language of the soldiers, groaning, swearing, cursing.

Then, he got up, turned around, and with a yell of triumph entered into the battle against his former captors.

At the end of the fighting, he reported himself at headquarters. He told his story to the general, and to a newspaper correspondent. He made the most of it, and informed them how, as he wriggled free of his bonds, he heard the officer commanding the firing party call upon d.i.c.k Swinton three times, as upon the preceding victim. Each time, there came d.i.c.k's angry refusal, in a loud, defiant tone. Then, as he ran, there was the ugly volley. When he looked back, the firing party were dragging away the dead body, preparatory to stripping it.

The sympathy with the rector was profound. Letters of condolence poured in. Yet, the bereaved man could not absolutely reconcile himself to the belief that d.i.c.k was no more. But it was evident that the authorities regarded Nutt's news as convincing, or they would not have sent an official intimation of his death.

Colonel Dundas read the news in his morning paper. It was his custom to seize the journals the moment they arrived, and read to Dora at the breakfast-table all war news of vital interest--and a good deal more that was prosy, and only interesting to a soldier. By chance, he saw the story of d.i.c.k's death before his daughter came upon the scene, and was discreet enough not to mention the matter. Since Dora's refusal of Ormsby, he was fairly certain as to the nature of his daughter's feelings toward d.i.c.k, and in his displeasure made no reference whatever to the young man whom formerly he had so welcomed to his home.

Dora was left to find out the truth four days later, when she came upon a stray copy of a weekly paper belonging to the housekeeper. d.i.c.k's portrait stared out at her from the middle of the page, and the whole story was given in detail. She was stunned at first, and, like the rector, refused to believe. It seemed possible that, at the last moment, the firing party might have missed their aim--a preposterous idea, seeing that the prisoner was set with his back against the wall, a dozen paces from his executioners.

She understood why her father had not mentioned it. For the last day or two, he had sung the praises of Captain Ormsby, who was coming to dine with them on Monday. He had thrown out a very distinct hint as to his own admiration for that gentleman's sterling qualities.

There was no one to help Dora bear her sorrow. It prostrated her. But for the forlorn hope that the escaped trooper might have made a mistake, and that, after all, d.i.c.k might have been saved, she would have broken down utterly.

It was unnecessary to tell the colonel that his well-meant postponement of the sad news was wasted effort. He ventured awkwardly to comment upon the death of their old friend.

”A good chap--a wild chap,” he observed ”but of no real use to anybody but his country, which has reason to thank him. If I'd been in his place, I should have done the same. But, if I'd done what he did before he left home, I think I should have died in the firing line, quietly and decently. Poor chap! Poor chap!”

”What do you mean by 'if you had done what he did before he left home?'”

asked the grief-stricken girl.

”I mean the forgery.”

”What forgery?”

”Do you mean to say you haven't heard? Why, everybody knows about it.

Ormsby kept it dark as long as he could, but Herresford forced his hand.

Don't you know what they're saying?”

”I know what Mr. Ormsby said. But I warn you not to expect me to believe any lie that ungenerous, cruel man has circulated about the man I loved.”

”Well, they say he went out to the war to get shot.”

”It's a lie!”