prisoners."

"Will they bring the wounded here, father?"

"I don't know, Polly. Where are we to put them, if they do?"

"Ah!" sighed the girl, rising and wiping her eyes, "it is very dreadful,
and I nearly swooned away when they brought the first wounded men here;
but I must be about and ready to help when they come. They'll want all
we can do."

She smoothed down her apron in a calm, matter-of-fact way, and then
moved over the rustling straw, as if ready for any duty; but she seemed
to recollect something, and came back to where Fred lay.

"It's your side that has won, sir," she said. "You will not be a
prisoner any longer, and--"

"Yes?" said Fred, for she stopped short.

"You heard what my father said, sir? You know he likes the Royalists,
and if he fought would fight for the king?"

"Yes, I could see all that from his manner. I had no need to hear his
words."

"But he is so good and kind, sir. He would not hurt a hair of any man's
head. You will not betray him to the soldiers, sir, and let him be
treated as a spy."

Fred was conscious that the girl was talking to him, but her words
seemed to be coming through a thick mist, and she looked far away
somewhere down a long vista of light, which stretched right away into
space, beginning upon the straw where he was lying, and passing right
out through the end of the loft. And there, within this vista of light,
surrounded by dancing motes, was the landlord's daughter. Then, as if a
thin filmy cloud had passed over the sun, a cloud which grew thicker and
thicker, so that the broad beam of light gradually died away, the
pleasant young homely face grew less and less distinct, and, lastly, all
was confused and mingled with singing noises and murmurs in his head,
and then--a complete blank.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

DISCOVERING THE TRAITOR.

When Fred came to himself, he was no longer lying upon straw, but upon a
comfortable bed, in a clean, white-washed room. It was evening, for the
sun seemed to be low, and sending a ruddy glow through the open window.

For a time he felt puzzled, and wondered why he was there; and as he
tried to collect his thoughts, and the memory of the fight which he had
heard came back, it seemed as if it was all a dream.

But no; that was no dream. Tramp--tramp! tramp--tramp!--the heavy march
of an armed man. It was a sentinel going to and fro beneath the window
sure enough; for the footsteps sounded faint, grew gradually