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Just at that moment the door opened, and Fred Brydon, having heard the last words, stood face to face with them both! When Fred Brydon went to his work that morning, smarting from the angry words that Evelyn had hurled at him, everyone he met noticed how gloomy and burdened he seemed to be; how totally unlike his former easy good- nature and genial cheerfulness was his strange air of reserve.
A cheer went up from the men on the shore, and the people who were gathering on the bridges, too late to be of service. Besides, the bridge was closed, and there was only a small opening at the piers. For one of these piers Brydon was making. He ran hard. Once he slipped and nearly fell, but recovered.
Brydon was sufficiently rested and refreshed he told his story. It is the story we have here to repeat. In the summer of 1841 the British army under General Elphinstone lay in cantonments near the city of Cabul, the capital of Afghanistan, in a position far from safe or well chosen. They were a mile and a half from the citadel, the Bala Hissar, with a river between.
Pierre, measuring the distance, and with a "Look out, below!" swiftly let himself down by his arms as far as he could, and then dropped to the timbers, as lightly as if it were a matter of two feet instead of twelve. He waved a hand to Brydon, and the crib shot on.
But below the bridge they saw an arm thrust up between the logs, and then another arm crowding them apart. Now a head and shoulders appeared. Luckily the piece of timber which Brydon grasped was square, and did not roll. In a moment he was standing on it. There was a wild shout of encouragement.
"You have not tell any one never?" Finden laughed. "Though I'm not a priest, I can lock myself up as tight as anny. There's no tongue that's so tied, when tying's needed, as the one that babbles most bewhiles. Babbling covers a lot of secrets." "So you t'ink it better Meydon should die, as Hadley is away and Brydon is sick hein?" "Oh, I think "
But Brydon raised John Rupert up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two river-drivers stood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards the old man was with his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the roots of a tree bore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs! There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still.
Her later works are "The Remnant of an Army," showing the arrival at Jellalabad, in 1842, of Dr. Brydon, the sole survivor of the sixteen thousand men under General Elphinstone, in the unfortunate Afghan campaign; the "Scots Greys Advancing," "The Defence of Rorke's Drift," an incident of the Zulu War, painted at the desire of the Queen and some others.
"Well of what has happened." "I believed at least you'd have been here. I've known, all along," she said, "that you've been coming." "'Known' it ?" "Well, I've believed it. I said nothing to you after that talk we had a month ago but I felt sure. I knew you would," she declared. "That I'd persist, you mean?" "That you'd see him." "Ah but I didn't!" cried Brydon with his long wail.
But Brydon raised John Rupert up, balanced himself, and tossed him at the pier, where two river-drivers stood stretching out their arms. An instant afterwards the old man was with his granddaughter. But Brydon slipped and fell; the roots of a tree bore him down, and he was gone beneath the logs! There was a cry of horror from the watchers, then all was still.
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