Part 29 (1/2)
”Pardon me, sir, but there are hors.e.m.e.n ahead.”
”Indeed? I was lost in thought, Conroy. Coming this way?”
”No, sir, they seem to be travelling south slowly. I noticed them first as we turned the corner back there; I could see outlines against the sky.”
”How large a party? They form merely a lumping shadow to my eyes.”
”Not more than three or four, sir, with a covered rig of some kind.
They're halted, now; heard us coming, I reckon.”
I could perceive the little group, but merely as a black smudge. Then a mounted figure seemed to detach itself from the darkness, and advance toward us.
”Halt your men, sergeant,” I said quietly. ”I'll ride forward and learn what the fellow wants.”
CHAPTER XXIX
THE ESCORT
The figure of the man approaching was hardly distinguishable, as he appeared to be leaning well forward over the saddle pommel, yet my eyes caught the glimmer of a star along a pistol barrel, and I drew up cautiously, loosening my own weapon.
”Who comes?” he questioned shortly, the low voice vibrant. ”Speak quick!”
”An officer with despatches,” I answered promptly, ”riding to Philadelphia--and you?”
”We are taking a wounded man home,” was the reply, the speaker riding forward. ”Are you Continental?”
”Yes. Major Lawrence, of Maxwell's Brigade.”
”Oh!” the exclamation was half smothered, the rider drawing up his horse quickly. I could distinguish the outline of his form now, the straight, slender figure of a boy, wearing the tight jacket of a Dragoon, the face shadowed by a broad hat brim.
”Unless I mistake,” I ventured cordially, ”you must be Eric Mortimer.”
”Why do you suppose that?”
”Because while at General Was.h.i.+ngton's headquarters he mentioned that you had asked permission to take your father--Colonel Mortimer, of the Queen's Rangers--to his home at Elmhurst. You left, as I understood, an hour or two ahead of us. Am I right?”
”Yes, sir; this is Colonel Mortimer's party.”
”Then we will pa.s.s on without detaining you longer, as we ride in haste.
I met your father once; may I ask if his wound is serious?”
”Serious, yes, but not mortal; he was shot in the right side when Monkton fell. His horse was. .h.i.t at the same time, and the animal's death struggle nearly killed his rider. The surgeon says he may be lame for life.”
I reached out my hand, and, with just an instant's hesitation, he returned the clasp warmly.
”My father is suffering too much for me to ask that you speak to him, Major Lawrence,” he said a little stiffly. ”Perhaps later, at Elmhurst--”
”I understand perfectly,” I interrupted. ”I am very glad to have met you.