“Head’s all right yet,” he said one morning, laughing; and he gave it a slow twirl round like a ball in a socket. “Feels a bit loose sometimes; not at all a pleasant sensation. You’re all right still, I see. Felt a bit nervous about you, though, once or twice.”
Frank frowned slightly; but Andrew went on.
“I noticed one of us trying the point of his sword; and twice over after dark I saw men watching this window, and that made me think that you must have spoken, especially as I saw Lady—well, never mind names—examining something she had drawn out of the bosom of her dress. She slipped it back as soon as she saw me, but I feel certain that it was a sort of bodkin or stiletto. ‘That’s meant for poor Frank,’ I said to myself; for, you know, in history women have often done work of that kind. But, there, you don’t seem to have any holes in you; so I suppose you are all right for the present.”
“How can you joke about so serious a matter?” cried Frank.
“Because I want to put an end to this miserable pique between us,” cried Andrew warmly. “It’s absurd, and I hate it. I thought we were to be always friends. I can’t bear it, Frank, for I do like you.”
“It was your doing,” said the lad coldly.
“No. It was the wretched state our country is in that did it all.”
“You always get the better of me in arguments,” said Frank, “so I am not going to fight with you in that way. But I know I am right.”
“And I know that I am right,” cried Andrew.
“I shall not, as I said before, try to argue with you. We could never agree.”