"Dunmore's raiders have been here."
"And Katharine?"
"A prisoner, with your father, Philip, but I trust both are uninjured."
"Mr. Seymour, sir, where is he?" said the deep voice of the boatswain, as he advanced farther into the room. The light fell full upon him. He was a splendid specimen of athletic manhood; tall, powerful, long-armed, slightly bent in the shoulders; decision and courage were seen in his bearing, and were written on his face, burned a dull mahogany color by years of exposure to the weather. He was clothed in the open shirt and loose trousers of a seafaring man, and he stood with his feet slightly apart, as if balancing himself to the uneasy roll of a ship. Honesty and fidelity and intelligence spoke out from his eyes, and affection and anxiety were heard in his voice.
"Lieutenant Seymour," he repeated, "where is he, sir?"
"There," said Talbot, stepping aside and pointing to the floor.
"Not dead, sir, is he?"
"Not yet, Bentley," Seymour, with regaining strength, replied; "I am not done for this time."
"Oh, Mr. John, Mr. John," said the old man, tenderly, bending over him, "I thank God to see you alive again. But, as I live, they shall pay dear for this—whoever has done it,—the bloody, marauding, ruffians!"
"Yes, Bentley, I join you in that vow," said Talbot.