“Flora Drummond is my cousin,” I answered. “I will take you to her. But is it about Angus?”
“It is about her brother, Lieutenant Drummond. He is not killed—let me say so at once.”
We were pressing through the superb crowd, and the moment afterwards we reached Flora. She was standing by a little table, talking with Ephraim Hebblethwaite, who spoke to Mr Raymond in a way which showed that they knew each other. Flora just looked at him, and then said, quietly enough to all appearance, though she went very white—
“You have bad news for some one, and I think for me.”
“Lieutenant Drummond was severely wounded at Prestonpans, and has fallen into the hands of the King’s troops,” said Mr Raymond, gently, as if he wished her to know the worst at once. “He is a prisoner now.”
Flora clasped her hands with a long breath of pain and apprehension. “You are sure, Sir? There is no mistake?”
“I think, none,” he replied. “I have the news from Colonel Keith.”
“If you heard it from him, it must be true,” she said. “But is he in London?”
“Yes; and he ran some risk, as you may guess, to send that message to you.”
“Duncan is always good,” said Flora, with tears in her eyes. “He was not hurt, I hope? Will you see him again?”