As a Whig, Major Dudley knew the Oakshott family, and was willing to extend his hospitality even to the long-lost Peregrine.  The Lord Warden, who was evidently very favourably impressed, saying that there was no need at present to treat him as a prisoner, but that every attention should be paid to him, as indeed he was evidently a dying man.  Burford and another of his associates were to be carried off, handcuffed, with the escort to Winchester jail, but before the departure, the soldiers who had been sent to the Chine returned baffled; the place was entirely deserted, and Barclay had escaped.

Anne allowed herself to be put to bed, being indeed completely exhausted, and scarcely able to think of anything but the one blessed certainty that Charles was safe, and freed from all stigma.  When, after the pain in her arm lulled enough to allow her to sleep, she had had a few hours’ rest, she inquired for Peregrine, she heard that for many hours the surgeon had been trying to extract the balls, and that they considered that the second shot had made his case hopeless, as it was in the body.  He was so much exhausted as to be almost unconscious; but the next morning, when Anne, against the persuasions of her hostess, had risen and been dressed, though still feeling weak and shaken, she received a message, begging her to do him the great kindness of visiting him.

Deadly pale, almost gray, as he looked, lying so propped with pillows as to relieve his shattered shoulder, his face had a strange look of peace, almost of relief, and he smiled at her as she entered.  He held out the hand he could use, and his first word was of inquiry after her hurt.

“That is nothing—­it will soon be well; I wish it were the same with you.”

“Nay, I had rather cheat the hangman.  I told those doctors yesterday that they were giving themselves and me a great deal of useless trouble.  The villains, as I told you, could not believe we should not betray them, and meant to make an end of us all.  It’s best as it is.  My poor faithful Hans would never have had another happy moment.”

“But you must be better, Peregrine,” for his voice, though low, was steady.

“There’s no living with what I have here,” he said, laying his hand on his side; “and—­I dreamt of your mother last night.”  With the words there was a look of gladness exceeding.

“Ah! the Evil Angel is gone!”

“I want your prayers that he may not come back at the last.”  Then, as she clasped her hands, and her lips moved, he added, “There were some things I could only say to you.  If they don’t treat my body as that of an attainted traitor, let me lie at your mother’s feet.  Don’t disturb the big Scot for me, but let me rest at last near her.  Then tell Robin ’tis not out of want of regard for him that I have not bequeathed Pilpignon to him, but he could do no good with a French estate full of Papists; and there’s a poor loyal fellow, living ruined at Paris—­a Catholic too—­with a wife and children half starved, to whom it will do more good.”