"Why, what is it, Waring?" asked Cram, anxiously, bending down from his saddle.
For a moment Waring was silent. Mrs. Cram felt her own hand trembling.
"Can you turn the battery over to Ferry and come with me?" asked the lieutenant.
"Certainly.—Bugler, report to Lieutenant Ferry and tell him I shall have to be absent for a while.—Drive on, Nell."
When, five minutes later, Waring was assisted up the stair-way, Cram towering on his right, the little party came upon a group of strangers,—three gentlemen, one of whom stepped courteously forward, raising his hat in a black-gloved hand. He was of medium height, slender, erect, and soldierly in bearing; his face was dark and oval, his eyes large, deep, and full of light. He spoke mainly in English, but with marked accent, and the voice was soft and melodious:
"I fear I have intrude. Have I the honor to address Lieutenant Waring? I am Philippe Lascelles."
For a moment Waring was too amazed to speak. At last, with brightening face and holding forth his hand, he said,—
"I am most glad to meet you,—to know that it was not you who drove down with us that night."
"Alas, no! I left Armand but that very morning, returning to Havana, thence going to Santiago. It was not until five days ago the news reached me. It is of that stranger I come to ask."