from his left nostril
to the angle of his jaw. But the jet-black hair and the eyes--the deep,
dark, challenging eyes--were those of Seville. A straight sword by his
side and a painted long-bow at his shoulder proclaimed him a bowman. A
white surcoat with the red lion of St. George upon it covered his broad
chest, while a sprig of new-plucked furze at the side of his steel cap
gave a touch of gaiety to his grim war-worn clothes.

No sooner had Tim looked up than a deep rich voice exclaimed:

"_Corpus Domini!_ do you need a leader?"

Tim was not a man to be easily startled, and with the bullets whining
and ping-thudding all around him, it was no manner of a time to be
easily startled. But the voice, on account of its unearthly sound,
fairly made him jump. He picked up his rifle, and stood upright. "Come
along! Come along!" the voice went on. "Why dost stand there, De
Gamelyn?"

"Oh, my God! I ... I can't stand it! The loss of blood and the marching
has done for me!"

"So! coming into the fight like a lion, you go out like a lamb. By Saint
Paul! this is not in accordance with the De Gamelyn traditions. Take up
thy arms! Come along!" said the stranger tapping him on the shoulder
with a barbed shaft trimmed with grey goose feather.

"Oh! please ... please.... I'm so tired!" said Tim, like a child
speaking to its nurse.

The bowman saw that the boy's lips and tongue were black with thirst,
and his eyes were blood-shot. And when Tim staggered over to him all his
body heaved and trembled like an overdriven horse. Sick and dizzy with
pain, he cast himself to earth again, and waited for death. "Why don't
they hit me?... I've tried,--oh, so hard!" he sobbed.

"Steady there! Steady, De Gamelyn! Take this," said the bowman, and drew
something from his side and handed it to him. It was a sword, if swords
be made of fire, of lightning, of dazzling lights; and the moment Tim
grasped it all his pain and dizziness fell from him.

"What is this?" he asked.

"The Sword of Life and Death," said the bowman.

"Who the blazes are you?" Tim asked sceptically.

It was with a touch of the Irish brogue that a cheery voice answered. "A
friend to a friend," said the bowman, "and the devil to a foe."

"Irish?" Tim questioned.

"Citizen of the world in time past ... now a citizen of heaven."

Tim gazed at the strange man in earnest scrutiny. He appeared quite at
his ease with bullets whining around him and he unslung a jack of wine