lace about the breast of his coat.

Baynes stood his ground, his attitude half-defiant, whilst his wife
and daughter shrank away in renewed fear. Mr. Blood, at the head
of the day-bed, looked over his shoulder to take stock of the
invaders.

The officer barked an order, which brought his men to an attentive
halt, then swaggered forward, his gloved hand bearing down the
pummel of his sword, his spurs jingling musically as he moved. He
announced his authority to the yeoman.

"I am Captain Hobart, of Colonel Kirke's dragoons. What rebels do
you harbour?"

The yeoman took alarm at that ferocious truculence. It expressed
itself in his trembling voice.

"I... I am no harbourer of rebels, sir. This wounded gentleman...."

"I can see for myself." The Captain stamped forward to the day-bed,
and scowled down upon the grey-faced sufferer.

"No need to ask how he came in this state and by his wounds. A
damned rebel, and that's enough for me." He flung a command at his
dragoons. "Out with him, my lads."

Mr. Blood got between the day-bed and the troopers.

"In the name of humanity, sir!" said he, on a note of anger. "This