“Ranald. It’s Lacroix. Lovall. Listen. I am going to lift you. Yes? Lift you out of here.”

The eye seemed to give its assent. Lacroix manoeuvred himself along the trench until he stood at Ranald’s side, then slid down as low as he could go, pushed one arm beneath Ranald’s knees, one beneath his shoulders, pressed his own back against the earthen wall, and lifted. No groan from Ranald, or if there was he did not hear it. He raised him high enough to clear the lip of the trench, then scrambled out himself, came round and lay on the grass beside him. He had taken a tremendous beating. You could still feel the heat of it. On the left side of his face the skin was tight and purpled, his left eye lost in the swelling. A long gash from his left eyebrow to his hairline. Left ear ripped. Part of it missing perhaps. A good deal of drying blood around his mouth.

“Ranald! Can you hear me? Ranald. Think of Aboukir, man. The beaches.”

“I had not forgot them,” said Ranald.

“No, you have not, I know it.” He could have embraced him then. A depth of relief that felt not importantly different from love. “Ranald. The one who attacked you. A soldier? A soldier with bandy legs? Calls himself Henderson?”

“He did not offer me his name,” said Ranald. “But it was him.”

“And Jane? Cornelius?”

“Gone.”

“What?”

“They had . . . word of Mr. Thorpe. They have gone to meet him. They will not be back today. Nor tomorrow I think.”

“Ranald. This man. He knows where the house is?”

“He will find it.”

“Listen, listen. Emily is there. She is alone. I have left her alone. I will come back for you, I swear it. As soon as I can.”

He tore off his coat and spread it over the damaged man. Ranald was speaking again. Lacroix watched his lips but it didn’t help. He lowered his head, turned it until he felt Ranald’s breath against his ear.

“He means to kill you, Mr. Lovall. He made that plain enough.”

He ran. Ran and stumbled and ran again. It was clumsy to run in boots. He sat, dragged them off, left them on their sides in the heather. He pushed himself, ran right at the edge of nausea. When the house was in view he stopped again, bending forward, hands pressed against his thighs, heaving in the air. He could not see the horse, then saw it had wandered down to the sea and was standing there, gazing out like an old man lost in the contemplation of wonders.