“Thank you, my lady,” said the man, with rough courtesy, as he took off his steel cap.
“Ah, you are wounded,” cried Lady Royland, with a look of horror.
“Only a scratch, my lady. My comrade here is worse than I.”
“Your wounds shall be seen to at once.”
“If I might speak, my lady, a place to sit down for an hour or two, and something to eat and drink, would do us more good than a doctor. We haven’t had a good meal since we rode away from Whitehall and along the western road a week ago.”
“Eight days and a harf, comrad’,” growled one of his companions.
“Is it? Well, I haven’t kept count.”
“See to them at once, Martlet,” said Lady Royland; and the horses were led off, while, clinging to her son’s arm, the anxious wife and mother hurried into the library, threw herself into a chair, tore open the great letter, and began, wild-eyed and excited, to read, while Roy walked up and down the room with his eyes fixed longingly upon the despatch till he could bear it no longer.
“Oh, mother!” he cried, “do, do, do pray give me a little bit of the news.”
“My poor boy! yes. How selfish of me. Roy, dear, there is something terribly wrong! Your dear father says he has been half-mad with anxiety, for he has sent letter after letter, and has had no news from us. So at last he determined to send his own messengers, and despatched five men to guard this letter to us—but I saw only three.”