er them.

And with that ended the great assault, but scarcely had the Sheriff
reached camp when a voice came crying after him through the dusk, and,
turning, he spied a figure waving a white rag on a stick. The messenger
was old Malachi, and he halted at a little distance, but continued to wave
his flag vigorously.

"Hey?" bawled back the Sheriff. "What is it?"

"Flag o' truce!" bawled Malachi in answer. "Master's compliments, and if
you've done for the day he wants to know if you've such a thing as a
surgeon."

"Pretty job for us if we hadn't," growled the Sheriff. "I keep no
surgeons for lawbreakers. How many wounded have you?"

"Ne'er a man amongst us, 'cept poor Jack Trevarthen, and he's dead.
'Tisn' for a man, 'tis for a woman. Mistress Stephen's crying out, and
the master undertakes if you send a surgeon along he shall be treated
careful."

So back with Malachi went the regimental surgeon, who had done his work
with the wounded some hours before. Roger Stephen met him at the side
wicket, and, leading him indoors, pointed up the stairs. "When 'tis
over," said he, "you'll find me yonder in the parlour." He turned away,
and upstairs the young doctor went.

Roger entered the parlour and shut the door behind him. The room was dark
and the hearth cold; but he groped for a chair and sat for two hours
alone, motionless, resting his elbows on the table and his chin on his
clasped, smoke-begrimed hands. He was listening. Now and again a moan
reached him from the room overhead. From the kitchen came the sound of
voices cursing loudly at intervals, but for the most part muttering--
muttering. . .

The cursers were those who came in from their posts to snatch a handful of
supper, and foraged about in larder and pantry demanding to know what had
become of Jane. Jane was upstairs. . .

The mutterers were men who had abandoned their posts to discuss the
situation by the kitchen fire. A brisk assault just now could hardly have
missed success. Trevarthen's death had demoralised the garrison, and
these men by the fire were considering the risk to their necks.
Roger knew what they were discussing. By rising and stepping into the
kitchen he could at least have shamed them back to duty. He knew this
full well, yet he sat on motionless. . .

A sound fetched him to his feet--a child's wail.

He stood up in the darkness lifting his arms . . . as a man might yawn and
stretch himself awaking from a long dream