These, nominally fighting for one or other of the parties, were
in truth nothing but marauders, being composed of deserters and
desperadoes of all kinds, who lived upon the misfortunes of the
country, and were even more cruel and pitiless than were the regular
troops.
At one of these villages Malcolm exchanged his attire as a serving
man of a rich burgher for that of a peasant lad. He was in ignorance
of the present position of the Swedish army, and was making for
the intrenched camp of Schwedt, on the Oder, which Gustavus had
not left when he had last heard of him.
On the fourth day after leaving the camp of Tilly, as Malcolm was
proceeding across a bare and desolate country he heard a sound of
galloping behind him, and saw a party of six rough looking horsemen
coming along the road. As flight would have been useless he continued
his way until they overtook him. They reined up when they reached
him.
"Where are you going, boy, and where do you belong to?" the leader
of the party asked.
"I am going in search of work," Malcolm answered. "My village is
destroyed and my parents killed."
"Don't tell me that tale," the man said, drawing a pistol from his
holster. "I can tell by your speech that you are not a native of
these parts."
There was nothing in the appointments of the men to indicate which
party they favoured, and Malcolm thought it better to state exactly
who he was, for a doubtful answer might be followed by a pistol
shot, which would have brought his career to a close.
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