"Where was he wounded?"
"In the shoulder,—a slight flesh wound."
Her face became slightly flushed, and he rose and faced her.
"Don't move unless you want to," he muttered. "But I should prefer to go a little further away. I think it would be a good thing."
"Move away?—is any one after us?" she cried frantically.
"No, no. No one is after us. But I think you would be better alone with me for a while anyway, and if we can walk a little further on, we shall be off everybody's track."
She made an effort to rise. He assisted her, and leaning heavily on his arm she walked with him slowly towards Sandlewood. It was after six. Neither spoke until the village was in sight, and then he asked if she knew of any place in it where they could dine. "Not that it really matters," he added, "because we don't want anything very substantial."
She said that she supposed the inn would be the best place.
To the inn they therefore went, and while the innkeeper's wife prepared tea for them and boiled a few eggs, they walked over to the village church.
"Stephen has a flesh wound, no more, in the shoulder. Nobody else is hurt," he said as they sauntered along. "I have dressed the wound, and a doctor has been fetched. He was actually able to walk to the house. I told them it was an accident, that I was not skilled in the use of rook-rifles. Of course they believed me. Why shouldn't they? I want you to promise not to show me up. It was all my fault, and I may surely be allowed to come out of it with only an accident against my name?"