To his dying day, Major Gordon was accustomed to say that a sly look, almost imperceptible, accompanied these last words. But, if so, Kate saw nothing of this, having grown faint again, from the exertion she had made. Her head now swam around to such a degree, that she was compelled, at this crisis, to close her eyes, and even to repose once more on the Major’s shoulder.
Strange to say, the turn of Uncle Lawrence came next. When Kate was, at last, sufficiently restored to be able to sit up unsupported, she observed a slight stream of blood trickling down the hand of the good old man. With a faint scream she called Uncle Lawrence’s attention to it, who, stripping up his sleeve, found, to his surprise, that a ball had struck him just above the wrist; evidently one of those discharged in the melee, and which would have hit Kate, if he had not interposed his body, in the true spirit of ancient knighthood.
“It’s nothing, my child,” he said, as, indeed, Kate immediately perceived.
But even while he spoke he fainted dead away, for Uncle Lawrence, brave as he was, both morally and physically, had that strange peculiarity common to some of the most courageous men that ever lived, to swoon at sight of his own blood.
It was now Kate’s turn, and, weak as she was, she would allow no one else to bathe the old man’s brow and bind up his wound. Uncle Lawrence’s swoon soon passed away, however. When he opened his eyes, it was with a smile of gratefulness inexpressibly sweet.
“The Lord bless you, darling,” he said, tenderly, as his gaze lingered on Kate’s countenance. Then he added, looking around on the anxious faces, “Pretty doings, to get sick in this way, like a narvous, sterricky woman. You’d drum such a cowardly fellow out of the army, Major—wouldn’t you?”
“If we had a few thousand heroes like you,” answered Major Gordon, pressing his hand, while sudden tears dimmed his eyes, “we’d have had our country free long ago.”
CHAPTER XLVI.
SWEETWATER AGAIN
Such is the power of that sweet passion,
That it all sordid baseness doth expel,
And the refined mind doth newly fashion
Unto a fairer form, which now doth dwell
In his high thoughts, that would itself excel,
Which he, beholding still with constant sight,
Admires the mirror of so heavenly light. —Spenser.
But now lead on;
In me is no delay; with thee to go
Is to stay here; with thee here to stay
Is to go hence unwilling; thou to me
Art all things under heaven. —Milton.