wound its way up the
zigzag, at the top of which Mary Eden and Master Rayburn were waiting
with the women and the tiny wounded garrison to receive the fresh party
of injured folk.

Mary ran to her wounded father to embrace him, and then to Minnie
Darley, to whom she held out her hands, and the people cheered as the
two girls kissed.

Mary was about to lead the trembling girl in, but she shook her head and
went to her father's side; and then Mary looked round for her brother,
and ran to him, as he came up leaning upon Dummy's arm.

"Oh, Mark, darling! hurt?" she cried, flinging her arms about his neck.

"Just a bit," he said, with a sickly smile. "You do as Minnie Darley
did. Never mind me; go and stay with father. He's more hurt than he'll
own to. Ah, Master Rayburn! brought you some more work, but we've burnt
out the wasps."

"My brave boy!" cried the old man, wringing his hands. "There, I'll
come to you as soon as I can. I must go to those who are worse."

"Yes, yes," said Mark; "I've got my doctor here. But tell me--young
Ralph?"

"Recovered his senses, and asked about his father and sister."

"Come along, Dummy," said Mark faintly; "let's go and tell him we've
brought them safe; and then you shall wash and bind up my cut."

He uttered a faint "Ah!" and would have fallen but for the boy's ready
arm; and the next minute he was being borne up the steps, pig-a-back
after all, though he had scouted the offer before. He had fainted dead
away.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

A DEAD FEUD.

Time glided away as fast in the days of James the First as it does in
the reign of our gentle Queen; and a year had gone by in the quiet
peaceful vale, where, to a man, all who had been in the great trouble
had more or less quickly recovered from their wounds.

The prisoners were the worst sufferers, and in the great friendly peace
brought about between the old lords of the land, partly by their own
manly feeling and the love that had somehow sprung up among their
children, the greatest of all the Christian virtues took deep root, and
flourished in a way that would have put the proverbial green bay tree to
shame.

Hence it was that, as very slowly one by one the miserable crippled
prisoners, so many wrecks, diseased by their own reckless life and
crippled by their wounds, struggled back slowly to a condition in which
perhaps a few years were left them for a better life, they were left
entirely in Master Rayburn's hand