Rosse—Aye, in the front.
Siward—Why, then, God’s soldier be he!—Shakspeare.
While Erminie and Britomarte talked together, there came a rush of feet upon the stairs, followed by the flinging open of the chamber door, and the sudden appearance of Elfie. She sprang at once towards Britomarte, threw herself upon her bosom, and hugged and kissed her, and laughed and cried over her.
“But, dear Elfie, how soon you have returned. In twenty-four hours. Why, you could scarcely have reached your journey’s end. And how did you find your father? Doing well, I hope, from your joyous looks,” said Erminie, as soon as she could put in a word.
“Oh! yes, the old boy’s all right! He’s got his right arm in a sling, and a plaster on both cheeks, and a patch over his left eye—that’s all. He’s not fit for duty, but he needn’t go to bed before a healthy Christian’s usual hour of retiring,” answered Elfie, as she recovered her breath, and threw herself into a chair.
“But how soon you have got back; I don’t understand it,” said Erminie, returning to the ‘previous question.’
“Don’t you? Well neither do I. All I know is that I came very near passing my awful old responsibility on the road. When the train stopped at the Relay House—which you know used to be a comfortable hotel, but is now turned into something between military headquarters and a beer garden—I looked out of the window, and there, as sure as you live, stood my pap, with a lot of dilapidated heroes of the rank and file, on the platform. I had just time to jump off the car before the train started again.”
“Oh! Elfie, dear, how rash to jump off the cars just as the train was about to start!” exclaimed Erminie.
“‘Rash!’ Well, I like that. How could it have been rash?”
“You might have been killed.”