A kindly-looking woman came out from one of the houses with a large earthenware mug of home-brewed ale, which she offered to him. He revived a little, thanked her courteously, and made one of his usual little jokes, but with so piteous an effort that Gabriel felt a choking sensation in his throat. He was glad that they were at that moment ordered to march to St. Peter’s Church, in which the prisoners were to be sheltered for the night. The soldiers untied Major Locke and carried him into the building, putting him down on the chancel floor that he might be a little removed from the noise and confusion in the nave, into which the soldiers were driving the weary prisoners roped together in pairs. Gabriel, relieved to find his right arm available again, dragged down an old moth-eaten cushion from the pulpit and placed it under the Major’s head, removed his helmet and chafed his cold, clammy hands. But the lack of all comforts baffled his efforts, and he knew that after the long, hot ride the mere chill of the flagstones was the very worst thing for one in his state. He raised him a little, propping up the grey head on his own shoulder. “You will send the news to Nell,” said the dying man, faintly. “Yes; but good news I hope,” said Gabriel. “Captain Tarverfield will, I think, remember his promise of help, and a surgeon may do much for you. I hear steps drawing near, maybe he hath already sent. No, ’tis but the sentry.” The soldier approached them and looked down silently at the wounded man. He was a tall, powerful Irishman who had come over to England as one of Strafford’s grooms, and the Major would have shrunk from him in horror had he known his nationality or guessed him to be a devout Roman Catholic. His face bore an expression which gave Gabriel hope. “Can you not fetch a surgeon?” he asked. “Surely you may do that much for a prisoner.” “I would do it, sir,” replied the man, “but I am on sentry duty, and bound not to leave the church. But sure, then, before dark one of the officers will go the rounds, and it will be him you can be asking.” He moved on, but returned presently with a garment which he had found in the vestry. “Wrap it about the feet of him, sir,” he said. “That’s the best chance for him, for sure this place be as cold as any vault.” Gabriel thanked him. “Was popish vestment ever before of such use?” said the Major, smiling faintly. “Yet, beshrew me! there’s something that tickles my fancy not a little in the thought of quitting this world wrapped in a cope!” “Talk not yet of quitting the world, sir,” said Gabriel. “I have seen worse wounded men recover.” But he argued against his own fears. The church was now very quiet, the prisoners, hungry and depressed, were trying to forget their wretchedness in sleep, and only the steps of the sentry could be heard echoing at the west end of the building, until, in response to a peremptory summons, he opened the door and admitted Colonel Norton and Lord Harry Dalblane.