"The worst news first," she replied. "One knows not why these things are so. It seems the God of Justice slumbers when subjects rebel against their rightful kings! But I have faith, sir. The right will win in the end—must win."
"So be it," he said, accepting the implied challenge, but adding nothing further. He would wait to be questioned now, and this strange woman should have the story in the way that pleased her best. As for her she could not trust herself to speak. Never before had her trembling body, her beating heart escaped from the domination of her resolute will. Never before had her mobile lips refused to formulate the commands of her active brain. She fought her battle out in silence, and finally turned toward him once more.
"There was something else you said, I think. My—my son?" Her voice sank to a whisper; in spite of herself one hand went to her heart. Ah, mother, mother, this was indeed thy king! "Is—is he wounded?—My God, sir! Not dead?"
His open hand which he had extended to her held two little objects. What were they? The bright sunlight was reflected from one of them, the locket she had given him. There was a dark discoloration on one side of it which she had never seen before. The other was his Prayer Book. O God—prayer! Was there then a God, that such things could happen? Where was He that day? She had given that book to him when he was yet a child. "Dead,"—she whispered,—"dead," shrinking back and staring at him.
"Would God I had died in his place, dear madam!" he said with infinite pity.
"How—how was it?" she went on, dry-eyed, in agony, moistening her cracking lips.
"Fighting like a hero over the body of General Mercer at Princeton. His men retreated and left them—"
"The rebel cowards," she interrupted.
"Nay, not cowards, but perhaps less brave than he. The British charged with their bayonets; our men had not that weapon, they fell back."
"Were you there, sir?"