Ridydale stepped down, carabine in hand, and came to Hugh’s side. “Is there anything you’ll be wanting, sir?” he began. “Yes,” Hugh replied, “I’d take it kindly of you if you’d just tell me what hit me that time.” Ridydale grinned and settled himself close by on the steps of the altar with his carabine across his knees. “’Tis all very simple, Master Hugh,” he explained. “They wasted a deal of lead trying to wing you,—they’re clumsy marksmen, those Roundhead cowherds. Somehow, by good luck, they contrived to shoot you in the arm. I take it you stumbled on one of those sunken stones, then, for you went down and broke your head against another gravestone.” “Was that it?” Hugh asked, in some mortification. “And then the colonel stepped out and fetched you in. We had sight of you, those that were keeping the west windows, as you came down to the lane. ‘It’s Hugh,’ says the colonel, sharplike; ‘unbar the door.’ Soon as we had the barrier tore down, and we made short work of it, he out after you. ’Twas a most improper thing, too,” Ridydale grumbled; “captain of a troop to risk himself under a fire like that for a mere volunteer. When there were others ready enough to go out. Maybe you were too flustered, sir, to note what a pretty shot I had at the knave who followed you over the wall?” Hugh confessed he had missed that sight. “Ay, ’twas not a shot to be ashamed of,” the corporal resumed, pulling his mustache with much satisfaction. “’Twas brisk give and take we were having then, sir. The colonel had a bullet through the skirts of his coat ere he got you within the church. Ay, ’twas improper conduct of him. What would have become of us all, tell me now, had he been hurt?” “Why, just the same that will become of you now he is not hurt,” the captain struck in crisply as he came up. “Tell me, Hugh, did it commend itself to the sapience of Sir William Pleydall to say what time Saturday we might look for relief?” “No, sir.” “Perhaps it does not matter to him whether it gets here at sunrise or sunset,” the captain remarked dispassionately. “It makes a mighty deal of difference to us, though.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and stood staring up at the broken window where the sun came through. In the strong light Hugh noted how haggard his face looked about the eyes, and how three days of neglect showed in the red-gold beard. But when the captain turned from the window there was a laugh in his eyes. “Jack,” he addressed Ridydale, who was standing at attention, “what devilry do you suppose Tommy Oldesworth is at now that he keeps so quiet?” “Shall I try a shot to stir him up, sir?” the corporal proffered. “Not for your life, Jack. Go rest you, while they let us.” As Ridydale strode off, Captain Gwyeth, with a soberer look, set himself down in his place. “You ought to know, Hugh, that we’re in a bad way,” he spoke out in a brusque, low tone.