"Wife and baby coming. Didn't you know I had a little one? Well, I have. Jolly little thing too. They're in a cart with others—thanks to Captain Ivor—" in a lower tone. "Never mind about us. Get him home—" with a glance towards Denham. "I've got to find rooms for ourselves, after I've been to the citadel. Must report myself there first. And then I shall have to meet my wife."
Roy moved two or three paces away with him.
"I say, tell me—what's been the matter with him? He just looks as if—"
"Hasn't been well for some time, and he was ill a few weeks ago. He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself, and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a poor consumptive young fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then, carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!"
"What for?"
"Child's father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with children. But he's about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest."
Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham's arm.
"I'll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I come back."
He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search. Ivor had taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.
"Roy—got Ivor? That's right," he said in his quick fashion. "Don't bring him to the citadel. I'll go and answer for him—and fee the gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis and heard what's been going on. Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I'm told—and ill to begin with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a piece of my mind, Ivor, another day."