“No; there are the men coming with it now.”
The two lads set off running, Andrew’s ill-humour passing off in action, and he chatted quite cheerily as they made for the Park.
“Your father was splendid, Frank!” he cried. “I was proud of him. What a lesson for those haughty sausage-eaters!”
“But it is a terrible business, Drew.”
“Stuff! only an affair of honour. Of course it may be serious for your father if the baron dies: but he won’t die. Some of his hot blood let out. Do him good, and let all these Hanoverians see what stuff the English have in them. Don’t you fidget. Why, every one in the Guards will be delighted. I know I am. Wouldn’t have missed that fight for anything.”
“You don’t ask how my father’s wound is.”
“No, and he would not want me to. Nasty, shallow cut, that’s all. Here we are.”
They trotted into the opening where the greensward was all trampled and stamped by the combatants’ feet, and found the doctor kneeling by his patient just as they had left him, and the two Grenadiers with grounded arms standing with their hands resting on the muzzles of their pieces.
“Hallo! young men,” cried the doctor, rising and stepping to them. “Is that litter going to be all day?”
“They’re bringing it, sir,” said Frank; “we ran on first. How is he now?”