Denis looked at him admiringly, for there was something about the lad’s face which attracted him.
“Oh yes,” he said—“Oh no. It has been all a troubled dream. I got hurt yesterday, and my arm throbs horribly.”
“Ah!” cried the new-comer. “I am very sorry. You are wounded?”
“No; I was in a bit of a fight with a man on horseback.”
“You were? I wish I had been there!” cried the new-comer eagerly. “Well? did you beat him?”
“I think so. He ran away. But I had my arm nearly wrenched out of the socket.”
“That’s bad. You have had it seen to by a doctor, of course?”
“Oh no. It will get well. But who are you?”
“Oh, I’m Sir John Carrbroke’s son Edward; but he always calls me Ned. I was so tired last night and slept so soundly that I didn’t hear you and your friends come. Father woke me a little while ago and told me to come and see you and welcome you to the Pines. Glad to see you. You’ve just come from France, haven’t you? But I needn’t ask,” continued the boy, smiling. “Anyone would know you were French.”
Denis flushed a little.