"Yes, yes, of course he would, Betty. Where is he?" I asked.
"Upstairs in bed," she answered.
"Is he sick?" I asked, rising.
"No and yes," she replied. "He is suffering from his wounds, and the surgeon says the fever is mounting rapidly to his head."
"His wounds?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, lots of them," she answered. "But I hope none of them are serious, save for the loss of blood."
"Wounds? Blood? Tell me, Betty, tell me! Has he been in trouble?" I asked, deeply concerned.
"You see it was this way, Baron Ned," she began, leaning back against the table and smoothing out her apron. "Yesterday while Mistress Gwynn and another lady, a duchess, were eating their dinner in the small dining room, three drunken ruffians came in and tried to kiss them. Master Hamilton, who was here at this very table, heard the disturbance, so he drew his sword, ran to the rescue, and he and I beat the fellows out. He fought beautifully, but one man can't stand long against three, so I upset two of the ruffians by tripping them—pulled their feet from under them, you know—and Master Hamilton's sword did the rest. One of them ran away, and the other two were carried to the hospital on stretchers. One of the ruffians had tried to kiss me a few minutes before, and I had almost drowned him with a pot of tea. If he ever returns, I'll see that the tea is boiling."
"It seems that every one is wanting to kiss you, Betty," I remarked.
"Not every one, but too many," she rejoined.