Very quickly, however, the lifelong habit of direct and most simple communion with the Unseen came to his aid. And in answer to his cry he heard the comforting words, “The beloved of the Lord shall dwell in safety by Him.” What did it matter whether life went on here or in some other world, since neither death, nor life, nor principalities, nor powers, could separate him from the love of God? The sharp frost and the bitter, nipping cold of that autumn night killed some of the wounded, but saved many by the painful process of freezing their wounds and thus staunching the blood. When the age-long hours had been lived through, and the next day dawned, Gabriel was quite unable to move, even when he heard footsteps and voices close by, he was too dull and exhausted to call for aid; it was not until a young, vigorous-looking man, with a mass of wavy golden hair, stooped over him, that he raised himself to see whether he had fallen into the hands of friend or foe. The green coat and orange scarf told him in a moment that this was one of Colonel Hampden’s men. “What of the battle?” he asked, faintly. “Neither side was wholly victorious, but in the main they say that we made the best fight, as our infantry and cavalry acted better together. But doubtless the finest charge of the day was Prince Rupert’s.” The momentary light in Gabriel’s face died out. The speaker broke off hurriedly and moistened the dry lips of the wounded man with water. “You are badly hurt,” he exclaimed. “We will get you carried to Kineton, where the surgeons will attend to you.” “Let me be!” said Gabriel, wearily. “The war has robbed me of all I value in life; for God’s sake, let me die in peace.” “That will I not,” said the other, firmly. “You are but worn out with suffering; remember that the country yet needs you.” He beckoned to two soldiers with a roughly extemporised litter, and then went on to look for others in need of help. “Who is yon officer?” asked Gabriel, as the men set down the litter beside him. “’Tis Cornet Joscelyn Heyworth,” replied the soldier, and without any loss of time he lifted Gabriel with little care and less skill from the ground, a process fraught with such hideous pain that a cry was wrung from his lips. Joscelyn Heyworth hastily rejoined them. “Take your water bottle to yonder man by the carcase of the white horse,” he said. “I will help to carry this gentleman to Kineton.” Gabriel gave him a grateful look, but he was past speaking, and could with difficulty strangle his groans through the long rough journey. At last he saw the church and the welcome sight of the houses in the little market town. His bearers hesitated for a minute as to where to take him. “Try the house of Manoah Mills, the saddler,” he said, with an effort. Somehow the recollection of Tibbie’s motherly face carried with it a world of comfort.