Not until four o'clock, when the sun was rising to
dispel the last wisps of mist over that stricken field of battle,
did he awaken from his tranquil slumbers.
He sat up in bed, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and collected
himself. Blows were thundering upon the door of his house, and a
voice was calling incoherently. This was the noise that had aroused
him. Conceiving that he had to do with some urgent obstetrical
case, he reached for bedgown and slippers, to go below. On the
landing he almost collided with Mrs. Barlow, new-risen and unsightly,
in a state of panic. He quieted her cluckings with a word of
reassurance, and went himself to open.
There in slanting golden light of the new-risen sun stood a
breathless, wild-eyed man and a steaming horse. Smothered in dust
and grime, his clothes in disarray, the left sleeve of his doublet
hanging in rags, this young man opened his lips to speak, yet for
a long moment remained speechless.
In that moment Mr. Blood recognized him for the young shipmaster,
Jeremiah Pitt, the nephew of the maiden ladies opposite, one who
had been drawn by the general enthusiasm into the vortex of that
rebellion.
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