Chapter Thirteen.
Most Haste, Worst Speed!
Unfortunately for his scheme of meeting with his brother again, poor Edgar awoke the next morning to one of the blinding and overpowering headaches to which over-fatigue and excitement always rendered him liable. There was no chance of getting that day to the trysting-place, no possibility of anything but lying still. He could not write a note to be given to Alwyn, he could hardly even think of a safe message for him.
“Tell Wyn—I cannot go out—tell him to—get what I told him—in the wood—he will understand,” he said, with a great effort at something that would be comprehensible.
“Yes, sir; don’t trouble yourself, sir,” said Robertson; “it shall be attended to.”
“And tell him to come for orders to-morrow; I shall be able to go to-morrow.”
“Very well, sir,” said Robertson, privately thinking that his master would be quite unequal to such fatigue to-morrow, or probably for two or three days to come.
Edgar chafed and fretted at his incapacity in a way that of course aggravated the headache. It was such a disappointment, besides the anxiety and suspense, not to see Alwyn again. He had not known how much he should care about it. Robertson thought that he had never known his master so restless and impatient.