THE SMUGGLER. 239 



CHAPTER XXIII. 



DURING the whole forenoon of the 3rd of September, the little 

 village of Woodchurch presented a busy and bustling, though, 

 in truth, it could not be called a gay scene. The smart dresses 

 of the dragoons, the number of men and horses, the soldiers 

 riding quickly along the road from time to time, the occasional 

 sound of the trumpet, the groups of villagers and gaping chil- 

 dren, all had an animating effect ; but there was, mingled with 

 the other sights which the place presented, quite a sufficient 

 portion of human misery, in various forms, to sadden any but 

 a very unfeeling heart. For some time after the affray was 

 over, every ten minutes was seen to roll in one of the small, 

 narrow carts of the country, half filled with straw, and bearing 

 a wounded man, or at most, two. In the same manner, several 

 corpses, also, were carried in ; and the number of at least fifty 

 prisoners, in separate detachments, with hanging hands and 

 pinioned arms, were marched slowly through the street to the 

 houses which had been marked out as affording the greatest 

 security. 



The good people of Woodchurch laughed and talked freely 

 with the dragoons, made many inquiries concerning the events 

 of the skirmish, and gave every assistance to the wounded 

 soldiers ; but it was remarked with surprise, by several of the 

 officers, that they showed no great sympathy with the smug- 

 glers, either prisoners or wounded ; gazed upon the parties who 

 were brought in with an unfriendly air, and turning round to 

 each other, commented, in low tones, with very little appear- 

 ance of compassion. 



" Ay, that's one of the Ramleys' gang," said the stout 

 blacksmith of the place, to his friend and neighbour, the wheel- 

 wright, as some ten or twelve men passed before them with 

 their wrists tied. 



"And that fellow in the smart green coat is another," 

 rejoined the wheehvright; " he's the mail who, I dare say, 



