Part 8 (1/2)

”Mr. Seymour, sir, where is he?” said the deep voice of the boatswain, as he advanced farther into the room. The light fell full upon him.

He was a splendid specimen of athletic manhood; tall, powerful, long-armed, slightly bent in the shoulders; decision and courage were seen in his bearing, and were written on his face, burned a dull mahogany color by years of exposure to the weather. He was clothed in the open s.h.i.+rt and loose trousers of a seafaring man, and he stood with his feet slightly apart, as if balancing himself to the uneasy roll of a s.h.i.+p. Honesty and fidelity and intelligence spoke out from his eyes, and affection and anxiety were heard in his voice.

”Lieutenant Seymour,” he repeated, ”where is he, sir?”

”There,” said Talbot, stepping aside and pointing to the floor.

”Not dead, sir, is he?”

”Not yet, Bentley,” Seymour, with regaining strength, replied; ”I am not done for this time.”

”Oh, Mr. John, Mr. John,” said the old man, tenderly, bending over him, ”I thank G.o.d to see you alive again. But, as I live, they shall pay dear for this--whoever has done it,--the b.l.o.o.d.y, marauding, ruffians!”

”Yes, Bentley, I join you in that vow,” said Talbot.

”And I too,” added Philip, bravely.

”And I,” whispered the wounded man.

”It's one more score that has got to be paid off by King George's men, one more outrage on this country, one more debt we owe the English,”

Bentley continued fiercely.

”No; these were Americans, Virginians,--more's the shame,--led by that blackguard Johnson. He has long hated the colonel,” replied Talbot.

”Curses on the renegades!” said the old man. ”Who is it that loves freedom and sees not that the blow must be struck to-day? How can any man born in this land hesitate to--” He stopped suddenly, as his eyes fell upon Talbot, whose previous irresolution and refusal had been no secret to him.

”Don't stop for me, Bentley,” said that young man, gently; ”I am with you now. I came over this evening to tell our friends here that I start north tomorrow as a volunteer to offer my services to General Was.h.i.+ngton.”

”Oh, Hilary,” exclaimed Philip, joyfully, ”I am so glad. Would that Katharine and father could hear you now!”

Seymour lifted his unwounded arm, and beckoned to Talbot. ”G.o.d bless you, Talbot,” he said; ”to hear you say that is worth a dozen cracks like this, and I feel stronger every minute. If it were not for the old wound, I would n't mind this thing a bit. But there is something you must do. There is an armed cutter stationed up the river at Alexandria; send some one to notify the commander of the Virginia naval militia there. They will pursue and perhaps recapture the party. But the word must be carried quickly; I fear it will be too late as it is.”

”I will go, Hilary, if you think best.”

”Very well, Philip; take your best horse and do not delay a moment.

Katharine's liberty, your father's life perhaps, depend upon your promptness. Better see Mr. West as you go through the town,--your father's agent, you know,--and ask him to call upon me to-morrow. Stop at the Hall as you come back.”

”All right, Hilary, I will be in Alexandria in four hours,” said Philip, running out.

”Bentley, I am going to take Lieutenant Seymour over to my plantation.

Will you stay here and look after the house until I can notify Colonel Wilton's agent at Alexandria to come and take charge, or until we hear from the colonel what is to be done? You can come over in the morning, you know, and hear about our protege. I am afraid the slaves would never stay here alone; they are so disorganized and terrorized now over these unfortunate occurrences as to be almost useless.”

”Ay, ay, sir; if Lieutenant Seymour can spare me, I will stay.”

”Yes, Bentley, do; I shall be in good hands at Fairview Hall.”

”This is arranged, then,” said Talbot. ”It is nine o'clock. I think we would better start at once. I will go out and see that the arrangements about the carriage are made properly, myself,” he said, stepping through the door.

Seymour's hand had closed tightly over something which had happened to fall near where it lay. ”Bentley,” he called, ”what is this in my hand?”

”It is a handkerchief, Mr. John,--a woman's handkerchief too, sir, and covered with blood.”