een
by Wentworth--who ran forward with the sergeant's lanthorn to assure
himself that the work had been well done--he had all the air of being
not only dead but already half buried.

And now, for a second, Mr. Wilding was in his greatest danger, and this
from the very humaneness of the sergeant. The fellow advanced to the
captain's side, a pistol in his hand. Wentworth held the light aloft and
peered down into that six feet of blackness at the jacent figure.

"Shall I give him an ounce of lead to make sure, Captain?" quoth the
sergeant. But Wentworth, in his great haste, had already turned about,
and the light of his lanthorn no longer revealed the form of Mr.
Wilding.

"There is not the need. The ditch will do what may remain to be done, if
anything does. Come on, man. We are wanted yonder."

The light passed, steps retreated, the sergeant muttering, and then
Wentworth's voice was heard by Wilding some little distance off.

"Bring up your muskets!"

"Shoulder!"

"By the right--turn! March!" And the tramp, tramp of feet receded
rapidly.

Wilding was already sitting up, endeavouring to get a breath of purer
air. He rose to his feet, sinking almost to the top of his boots in
the oozy slime. Foul gases were belched up to envelop him. He seized
at irregularities in the bank, and got his head above the level of the
ground. He thrust forward his chin and took great greedy breaths in a
very gluttony of air--and never came Muscadine sweeter to a drunkard's
lips. He laughed softly to himself. He was alone and safe. Wentworth
and his men had disappeared. Away in the direction of Penzoy Pound the
sounds of battle swelled ever to a greater volume. Cannons were booming
now, and all was uproar--flame and shouting, cheering and shrieking,
the thunder of hastening multitudes, the clash of steel, the pounding of
horses, all blent to make up the horrid din of carnage.

Mr. Wilding listened, and considered what to do. His first impulse was
to join the fray. But, bethinking him that there could be little place
for him in the confusion that must prevail by now, he reconsidered the
matter, and his thoughts returning to Ruth--the wife for whom he had
been at such pains to preserve himself on the very brink of death--he
resolved to endanger himself no further for that night.

He dropped back into the ditch, and waded, ankle deep in slime, to the
other side. There he crawled out, and gaining the moor lay down awhile
to breathe his