‘Well, sir,’ replied John, ‘there’s a few of ’em left; but there’s none at Dimbell’s now; so, if you would stop here a bit, I’ll go and fetch somebody, and we’ll make shift to get you there. Perhaps, if we take you the back way over the fields, none o’ the soldiers’ll see us.’ ‘Do, John,’ said the wounded man; ‘and I’ll lie down here and stop quiet. But, for God’s sake, don’t be long, for I’m almost done.’ Upon this away went John, and soon returned with help enough to carry the wounded man to his old quarters in the farmhouse. The good dame and her daughter, who had prepared a bed immediately upon John’s report, hastened to wash and roughly dress the wound, and to feed the famished and half-dead man. All night they watched and tended him, but in the morning he was evidently worse, and seemed sinking down to death. There was no surgical aid near, and they dare not let his presence be known, for fear of the soldiery. All day he lay in a kind of stupor, hardly noticing the presence of any one; but in the evening he revived a little, and could speak. He called the farmer to him, and said brokenly to him and his wife: ‘My good friends, you’ve been very kind to me. I know I’m dying; you must be my heirs. Keep that money—the money I left with you. Let pretty Barbara get married. Tell John I thank him for bringing me here. I hope you’ll prosper. I shall be gone soon. May God have mercy on my king, and on my country! I die willingly for them.’ After this, he conversed no more, but lay breathing heavily, with his eyes fixed, and acknowledging only by a touch the kind offices that were done him. About ten o’clock at night, the farmhouse door was flung rudely open, and a loud voice called for the master of the house. Hurrying forward, Dimbell found himself confronted by a Parliamentary officer, and saw that the house was surrounded by soldiers. The officer said: ‘Whom have you got up-stairs? I shall require you to answer for harbouring traitors. Come, show me the way.’ The farmer, with a sinking heart, showed the officer the room, and he entered noisily, crying: ‘Come, come, who are you?’ The dying man, somewhat aroused, turned his glazing eyes towards the sound, but took no further notice. ‘O sir,’ said the farmer’s wife, weeping and wringing her hands, ‘I’m afeared as he’s dying. Look at him, and you’ll see as he can’t be moved. O dear, O dear! Good gentleman, don’t you touch him.’