In ignorance of the fact that Geoffrey has been hurt in the fray, she lays her hand upon the injured arm. Instinctively he shrinks from the touch.
"What is it?" she says, fearfully, and then, "Your coat is wet—I feel it. Oh Geoffrey, look at your shirt. It is blood!" Her tone is full of horror. "What have they done to you?" she says, pitifully. "You are hurt, wounded!"
"It can't be much," says Geoffrey, who, to confess the truth, is by this time feeling a little sick and faint. "I never knew I was touched till now. Come, let us get back to the farm."
"I wonder you do not hate me," says Mona, with a brokenhearted sob, "when you remember I am of the same blood as these wretches."
"Hate you!" replies he, with a smile of ineffable fondness, "my preserver and my love!"
She is comforted in a small degree by his words, but fear and depression still hold her captive. She insists upon his leaning on her, and he, seeing she is bent on being of some service to him, lays his hand lightly on her shoulder, and so they go slowly homeward.
CHAPTER XIII.
HOW MONA PROVES HERSELF EQUAL—IF NOT SUPERIOR—TO DR. MARY WALKER; AND HOW GEOFFREY, BY A BASE THREAT, CARRIES HIS POINT.
Old Brian Scully is in his parlor, and comes to meet them as they enter the hall,—his pipe behind his back.