“I know not what devil´s trinkets you have enclosed there,” said the soldier, “but I would have you act like a reasonable man, and tell me what you purpose doing. Yonder lady is young and unprotected, and we would not willingly leave you, but this is no time to give heed to such trash as you have shut up there, when your life is in danger every moment.” “My life is here,” answered the old man, “and I pray you, for God´s sake, leave me in peace. I know you not.” Macpherson turned on his heel and rejoined Gervase and the girl. “His mind is gone utterly,” he said, “and it is useless endeavouring to reason with him. My young friend, madam, has, I doubt not, told you how matters stand with us. If you will, we shall endeavour to carry you with us, and trust to the fortunes of war to bring you safely through. Another hour should bring us to the ford. I trust that you are able to ride, for the chaise is rendered useless, and were it not, we have not horses to draw it. In the meantime I had better secure your nag.” Macpherson went after the stray horse which was now quietly grazing at some distance, and shortly returned with it. “And now,” he said, “I regret that we cannot give this brave fellow Christian burial, but if you, madam, will look after your grandfather, my young friend and I will even place him where he may sleep his last sleep decently, like a brave and honest man as I doubt not he was.” The girl went over to the dead man, and kneeling down kissed his forehead, and then rising without a word, but with a great sob which she bravely strove to repress, went over to her grandfather. Macpherson and Gervase carried the body into the field, and placing it in the ditch, cut a quantity of bramble with which they reverently covered it. “Sorry I am that we cannot dig a grave,” said Macpherson, “but it may be that is a pagan thought. He hath died like a man, and at the last day he will rise, knowing that he fell in the path of duty. What does it matter for this poor carcase what becomes of it? ´Tis for the living, not for the dead, that we should mourn. And now look you, Gervase Orme, I love you like a son, and would not willingly see you come to evil. Yonder damsel is goodly to look upon and hath the tender ways of a woman. I can see that you are already drawn towards her, and are ready even now to let her lead you as she will. Be warned by me, and shun the snare while you are still heart-whole and your wings are still unplucked. Nay, you are angry at the wise counsel of a friend; I speak only for your good, and will say no more. But I would that we had not met them, and would yet--” “Surely,” said Gervase, with warmth, “you would not leave this defenceless girl and the feeble old man, even if you might?”