Though all the western quarter of the sky was night-black and spangled yet with stars, the dawn was graying slowly in the east when Tybee roused me.  
"They have not come for you as yet," he said; "so I took time by the forelock and passed the word for breakfast. It heartens a man to eat a bite and drink a cup of wine just on the battle's edge. Will you sit and let me serve you, Captain Ireton?"
 
"That I will not," said I; adding that I would blithely¹ share the breakfast with him. Whereat he laughed and clipt my hand, and swore I was a true soldier and a brave gentleman to boot.
 
So we sat and hobnobbed at the table; and Tybee lighted all the remnant candle-ends, and broached³ the wine and pledged me in a bumper⁴ before we fell to upon the cold haunch of venison.
 
My summons came when we had shared the heel-tap of the bottle. It was my toast to this kind-hearted youngster, and we drained it standing⁵ what time the stair gave back the tread of marching men. Tybee crashed his glass upon the floor and wrung⁶ my hand across the table.
 
"Good by, my Captain; they have come. God damn me, sir, I'll swear they might do worse than let you go, for all your spying. You've carried off this matter with the lady as a gentleman should, and whilst I live, she shall not lack a friend. If you have any word to leave for her—"
 
I shook my head. "No," said I; then, on second thought: "And yet there is a word. You saw how I must see the matter through to shield the lady?"
 
"Surely; 'twas plain enough for any one to see."
 
"Then I shall die the easier if you will undertake to make it plain to Richard Jennifer. He must be made to know that I supplanted⁷ him only in a formal way, and that to save the lady's honor."
 
The lieutenant⁸ promised heartily⁹, and as he spoke¹⁰, the oaken bar was lifted and my reprieve¹¹ was at an end.
 
Having the thing to despatch¹² before they broke their fast, my soldier hangmen marched me off without ado. The house and all within it seemed yet asleep, but out of doors the legion vanguard was astir, and newly kindled¹³ camp-fires smoked and blazed among the trees. In shortest space we left these signs of life behind, and I began to think toward the end.
 
'Tis curious how sweet this troubled life of ours becomes when that day wakes wherein it must be shuffled¹⁴ off! As a soldier must, I thought I had held life lightly enough; nay¹⁵, this I know; I had often worn it upon my sleeve in battle. But now, when I was marching forth¹⁶ to this cold-blooded end without the battle-chance to make it welcome, all nature cried aloud to me.
 
The dawn was not unlike that other dawn a month past when I had ridden down the river road with Jennifer; a morning fair and fine, its cup abrim and running over with the wine of life. I thought the cool, moist air had never seemed so sweet and fragrant¹⁷; that nature's garb¹⁸ had never seemed so blithe². There was no hint nor sign of death in all the wooded prospect¹⁹. The birds were singing joyously²⁰; the squirrels, scarce alarmed enough to scamper²¹ out of sight, sat each upon his bough²² to chatter²³ at us as we passed. And once, when we were filing through a bosky dell with softest turf to muffle²⁴ all our treadings, a fox ran out and stood with one uplifted foot, and was as still as any stock or stone until he had the scent²⁵ of us.
 
A mile beyond the outfields of Appleby Hundred we passed the legion picket²⁶ line, and I began to wonder why we went so far; wondered and made bold to ask the ensign in command, turning it into a grim jest and saying I misliked to come too weary to my end.
 
The ensign, a curst young popinjay, as little officer cubs²⁷ are like to be, answered flippantly that the colonel had commuted²⁸ my sentence; that I was to be shot like a soldier, and that far enough afield so the volleying would not wake the house.
 
So we fared on, and a hundred yards beyond this point of question and reply came out into an open grove²⁹ of oaks: then I knew where they had brought me—and why. 'Twas the glade³⁰ where I had fought my losing battle with the baronet. On its farther confines two horses nibbled³¹ rein's-length at the grass, with Falconnet's trooper serving-man to hold them; and, standing on the very spot where he had thrust me out, my enemy was waiting.
 
'Twas all prearranged; for when the ensign had saluted³² he marched his men a little way apart and drew them up in line with muskets³³ ported. But at a sign from Falconnet, two of the men broke ranks and came to strap³⁴ me helpless with their belts. I smiled at that, and would not miss the chance to jeer³⁵.
 
"You are a sorry coward, Captain Falconnet, as bullies³⁶ ever are," I said. "Would not your sword suffice against a man with empty hands?"
 
He passed the taunt³⁷ in silence, and when the men had left me, said: "I have come to speed your parting, Captain Ireton. You are a thick-headed, witless fool, as you have always been; yet since you've blundered into serving me, I would not grudge³⁸ the time to come and thank you."
 
"I serve you?" I cried. "God knows I'd serve you up in collops at the table of your master, the devil, could I but stand before you with a carving³⁹ tool!"
 
He laughed softly. "Always vengeful and vindictive⁴⁰, and always because you must ever mess and meddle⁴¹ with other men's concerns," he retorted. "And yet I say you've served me."
 
"Tell me how, in God's name, that I may not die with that sin unrepented of."
 
"Oh, in many small ways, but chiefly in this affair with the little lady of Appleby."
 
"Never!" I denied. "So far as decent speech could compass it, I have ever sought to tell her what a conscienceless villain⁴² you are."
 
He laughed again at that.
 
"You know women but indifferently, my Captain, if you think to breach⁴³ a love affair by a cannonade of hard words. But I am in no humor to dispute with you. You have lost, and I have won; and, were I not here to come between, you'd look your last upon the things of earth in shortest order, I do assure you."
 
"You?—you come between?" I scoffed⁴⁴. "You are all kinds of a knave⁴⁵, Sir Francis, but your worst enemy never accused you of being a fool!"
 
There was a look in his eyes that I could never fathom⁴⁶.
 
"You are bitter hard, John Ireton—bitter and savage⁴⁷ and unforgiving. You knew the wild blade of a half-score years ago, and now you'd make the grown man pay scot and lot for that same youngster's misdeeds. Have you never a touch of human kindliness⁴⁸ in you?"
 
To know how this affected⁴⁹ me you must turn back to that place where I have tried to picture out this man for you. I said he had a gift to turn a woman's head or touch her heart. I should have said that he could use this gift at will on any one. For the moment I forgot his cool disposal of me in the talk with Captain Stuart; forgot how he had lied to make me out a spy and so had brought me to this pass.
 
So I could only say: "You killed my friend, Frank Falconnet, and—"
 
"Tush!" said he. "That quarrel died nine years ago. Your reviving of it now is but a mask."
 
&qu............