A soldier used to war would perhaps have scorned to call this a
battle, but it was dreadful enough to these three when they heard the
sobbing panting, and saw the struggling of a poor horse not quite
dead, and his rider a little way from him, a fine stout young man,
cold and stiff, as Nanny turned up his face to see if it was her
Harry's.
A little farther on lay another figure on his back, but as Nanny
stooped over it, a lantern was flashed on her and a gruff voice
called out, "Villains, ungodly churls, be you robbing the dead?" and
a tall man stood darkly before them, pistol in hand.
"No, sir; no, sir," sobbed out Nanny. "I am only a poor widow woman,
come down to see whether my poor lad be dead or alive and wanting his
mother."
"What was his regiment?" demanded the soldier in a kinder voice.
"Oh, sir, your honour, don't be hard on him--he couldn't help it--he
went with Sir George Elmwood."
"That makes no odds, woman, when a man's down," said the soldier.
"Unless 'tis with the Fifth Monarchy sort, and I don't hold with
them.
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