The Vicar gave a rueful smile. “I may be half a leech, but I’m not a whole conjuror, and can’t make a couple of handkerchiefs into bandages that will serve. No, Hilary, you must get me some linen from Mrs. Chadd. Here come the children with the water; take them with you.” The Vicar went to rescue the helmet full of water which Nan in her haste was spilling by the way, and Hilary bent over her lover. “I will be back again very soon, Gabriel; promise not to move rashly. I wish I need not leave you--I can’t bear to go.” He raised her hand to his lips. “What a nightmare these years of war have been! If we could but wake and forget them!” he said, with a tired sigh. But before anything further could be said the Vicar interposed, cheerfully, “Come, my dear, the children will help to carry the things, and not even Prince Rupert’s Protestation forbids me to obey the commandment and give a thirsty enemy a cup of water to drink.” While Hilary and the children ran to the farm he held the helmet to the wounded man’s lips. Gabriel drank thirstily. “If you have signed the Protestation, sir, the less you have to do with me the better,” he said, reviving a little. “I have not signed it,” said the Vicar, sturdily, “and I have every intention of taking you to my house that you may be properly tended.” “Sir, indeed I dare not let you run such a risk; if aught should befall you what would become of Hilary?” said Gabriel, his eyes full of anxiety. “You are right to think of her; you two were old friends at Hereford.” “More than friends--we were betrothed before this war divided us.” “Yet, did we not agree yesterday when you spared Bosbury Cross that, spite of the war, there was one bond which still united us?” “You would not object to my suit?” said Gabriel, eagerly. “On the contrary, I should welcome it. The friendship betwixt the Harfords and the Unetts is a two generation friendship, and truth to tell, I have just learnt that my niece is in some danger from the attentions of Colonel Norton--a man in whom I have been much deceived.” Gabriel lay musing for a minute, then asked abruptly--“How soon could I be fit to ride, sir?” “It will be a matter of a month at least,” said the Vicar. “Surely, I could ride as far as Hereford--to my father?” “Nay, ’tis out of the question. Oh, we will hide you safely somehow. Hilary hath a ready wit and will doubtless hit on some device.” “If I could but have speech with my father,” said Gabriel, restlessly. “Well, I could myself ride over for him, and he could dress your wounds,” suggested the Vicar. With an effort Gabriel rallied his failing powers. “I will be true with you,” he said, firmly. “’Tis not for that I would see him, but I bear despatches to Fairfax and Cromwell, and am in honour bound to see them in safe hands.” “Despatches!” exclaimed the Vicar with a troubled look. “This is a grave matter. Yet ’twas honest of you to tell me. I think I might at least bring your father to-night to see you.”