“No, we're both Yankees, from Fernborough, Massachusetts.”
The man knelt beside Quincy and gazed at him earnestly. He looked up at Tom.
“I could bless the man who fired that shot. My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer and this young man is my son!”
Tom's surmise had been correct. Alice did not improve and a long stay at the Hospital became necessary before the return to England would be possible.
“What's that noise, Babette?” asked Alice.
“There must be a riot somewhere,” was the reply. “The soldiers are marching past. They are fighting in a street nearby.”
Alice said no more. What had she to do with fighting and bloodshed? Her suffering was greater than any bullet could inflict. She fell into a doze from which she was awakened by a loud cry from Babette.
“Oh, Madame, a carriage has just stopped here, and they are bringing a wounded man into the Hospital. There are two men with him—one looks like an Englishman or American.”
“Go down, Babette, and see if you can find out who they are. I should be glad if I could be of help to one of my own countrymen.”
It seemed a very long time before the maid returned. When she did, the usually self-confident Babette seemed dazed. She did not speak until her mistress asked: