Marchmont was speaking rapidly to the lieutenant and the provost officer. “How do you know that he is a spy? Said he was an escaped prisoner—escaped from Prison X? Couldn’t you wait to find out? Believe it? Yes, I believe it. He’s a Southern officer—he did me the best of turns once—day when I thought I was a prisoner myself—day of Chantilly.—Yes. Colonel Francis Marchmont. Marchmont Invincibles. Remand him, eh?—until we telegraph to the Commandant at X. No use treating him as a spy if he isn’t a spy, eh? Remember once in Italy when that game was nearly played on myself.—You will wait, Lieutenant, until I send an orderly back with a note to your general? Know him well—think I can arrange matters.—Thanks! Here, Roberts!” Roberts galloped off. The group beneath the tree, the soldiers drawn up at one side, the troopers and their colonel stayed as they were, waiting. The bright sands ran on, the breeze in the oak whispered like a dryad, the bees buzzed, there came an odour of the pine. Stafford’s hand and lip were yet stained with the berries. He stood, the tawny cirque about his neck, waiting with the rest. Roberts returned. He bore a folded piece of writing which he delivered to Marchmont. The latter read, then showed it to the lieutenant, who spoke to the sergeant of the provost guard. Two not unkindly hands loosened the circle of rope and lifted it clear from the prisoner. Marchmont came across with outstretched hand. “Major Stafford, I thought I could manage it! As soon as the matter is verified from X—I shall see if I cannot personally arrange an exchange. I am pretty sure that I can do that, too.” His teeth gleamed beneath his yellow mustache. “I haven’t at the moment a flask such as you raised me from the dead with!—Jove! the fine steel rain and the guns with the thunder, and Caliph pressed hard, and it was _peine forte et dure_—” “It was a travelled road,” said Stafford; “presently some one else would have come by and released you. But this is not a travelled road and I was very near to death.” He looked at his berry-stained hands. “I don’t think I cared in the least about death itself. It seemed, standing here, a perfectly unreal pasteboard arch, a piece of stage furniture. But I have a piece of work to do on this side of it ... and so, on the whole, I am glad you came by.” He laughed a little. “That has a mighty ungracious sound, has it not? I should thank you more heartily—and I do!”