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‘Did Tom see him that did it?’ asked Jonathan.

‘Well, he saw him,’ replied Sam, ‘but not to swear by. Said he was a very tall man, and very big, and had a ‘ankerchief about his face, and a very quick shot, and sat his horse like a thorough gentleman, as he is.’

‘A gentleman!’ cried Nance. ‘The dirty knave!’

‘Well, I calls a man like that a gentleman,’ returned the ostler; ‘that’s what I mean by a gentleman.’

‘You don’t know much of them, then,’ said Nance.

‘A gentleman would scorn to stoop to such a thing. I call my uncle a better gentleman than any thief.’

‘And you would be right,’ said Mr. Archer.

‘How many snuff-boxes did he get?’ asked Jonathan.

‘O, dang me if I know,’ said Sam; ‘I didn’t take an inventory.’

‘I will go back with you, if you please,’ said Mr. Archer. ‘I should like to see poor Oglethorpe. He has behaved well.’

‘At your service, sir,’ said Sam, jumping to his feet. ‘I dare to say a gentleman like you would not forget a poor fellow like Tom– no, nor a plain man like me, sir, that went without his sleep to nurse him. And excuse me, sir,’ added Sam, ‘you won’t forget about the letter neither?’

‘Surely not,’ said Mr. Archer.

Oglethorpe lay in a low bed, one of several in a long garret of the inn. The rain soaked in places through the roof and fell in minute drops; there was but one small window; the beds were occupied by servants, the air of the garret was both close and chilly. Mr. Archer’s heart sank at the threshold to see a man lying perhaps mortally hurt in so poor a sick-room, and as he drew near the low bed he took his hat off. The guard was a big, blowsy, innocent- looking soul with a thick lip and a broad nose, comically turned up; his cheeks were crimson, and when Mr. Archer laid a finger on his brow he found him burning with fever.

‘I fear you suffer much,’ he said, with a catch in his voice, as he sat down on the bedside.

‘I suppose I do, sir,’ returned Oglethorpe; ‘it is main sore.’

‘I am used to wounds and wounded men,’ returned the visitor. ‘I have been in the wars and nursed brave fellows before now; and, if you will suffer me, I propose to stay beside you till the doctor comes.’

‘It is very good of you, sir, I am sure,’ said Oglethorpe. ‘The trouble is they won’t none of them let me drink.’

‘If you will not tell the doctor,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘I will give you some water. They say it is bad for a green wound, but in the Low Countries we all drank water when we found the chance, and I could never perceive we were the worse for it.’

‘Been wounded yourself, sir, perhaps?’ called Oglethorpe.

‘Twice,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘and was as proud of these hurts as any lady of her bracelets. ‘Tis a fine thing to smart for one’s duty; even in the pangs of it there is contentment.’

‘Ah, well!’ replied the guard, ‘if you’ve been shot yourself, that explains. But as for contentment, why, sir, you see, it smarts, as you say. And then, I have a good wife, you see, and a bit of a brat–a little thing, so high.’

‘Don’t move,’ said Mr. Archer.

‘No, sir, I will not, and thank you kindly,’ said Oglethorpe. ‘At York they are. A very good lass is my wife–far too good for me. And the little rascal–well, I don’t know how to say it, but he sort of comes round you. If I were to go, sir, it would be hard on my poor girl–main hard on her!’

‘Ay, you must feel bitter hardly to the rogue that laid you here,’ said Archer.

‘Why, no, sir, more against Engleton and the passengers,’ replied the guard. ‘He played his hand, if you come to look at it; and I wish he had shot worse, or me better. And yet I’ll go to my grave but what I covered him,’ he cried. ‘It looks like witchcraft. I’ll go to my grave but what he was drove full of slugs like a pepper-box.’

‘Quietly,’ said Mr. Archer, ‘you must not excite yourself. These deceptions are very usual in war; the eye, in the moment of alert, is hardly to be trusted, and when the smoke blows away you see the man you fired at, taking aim, it may be, at yourself. You should observe, too, that you were in the dark night, and somewhat dazzled by the lamps, and that the sudden stopping of the mail had jolted you. In such circumstances a man may miss, ay, even with a blunder-buss, and no blame attach to his marksmanship.’ . . .