A NOCTURNAL RIDE.
Of the details of this ride I need hardly speak. Anxious to avoid the rioters, I steered my course by as northerly a curve as was practicable. The street lamps were, of course, unlighted, but the glow of innumerable fires reflected from every window, and beaten downwards by the crimson clouds overhead, was now turning night into day. As I galloped through the streets of Marylebone, I caught a glimpse of the Attila wheeling far away over what seemed to be Kensington. But of the few awkward incidents I can scarcely now remember one; my chief enemy indeed was a poignant anxiety about Lena.
It must have been ten o’clock by the time I galloped into Islington, tired, hungry, and unkempt, but devoured by emotions which sternly forbade a halt.
Five minutes brought me to the villa, and throwing the reins over the railing, I pushed the gate aside and entered. The door of the house was open, and the sound of voices came from within. Revolver in hand I entered, but a glance dispelled my apprehensions. The little room so familiar to me was full of terrified women, with here and there a sturdy workman among them. At my entrance there was something like a panic, but I speedily reassured the company.
“Where are Miss Northerton and the old lady?” was my first question after soothing the tumult. A sister of charity came forward.
“Up-stairs. Do you bring any message? Mrs. Hartmann, I must tell you, is dying.”
“But Miss——?”
“Is safe and in attendance upon her.”
A wave of delight rolled through me. How selfish we all are! The news about Mrs. Hartmann weighed as nothing with me for the minute.