“She’s nobody else,” said Jock. “But wha in a’ the warl’ are ye, that seems so weel acquaint wi’ the dear auld cat?”
But now the stranger had seen my master and the surgeon returning, and hurried off to meet them, I still retaining my place in the priest’s arms.
The recognition had been mutual and simultaneous.
“This is indeed a happy meeting,” both exclaimed.
Then hand met hand in a hearty shake.
“But you are wounded, my friend. Come, let our good surgeon attend to you at once.”
The priest was led to the doctor’s tent, and master would not let him speak until he had quaffed some refreshment, and had the ugly wound in the forehead attended to.
“And now I must speak to you at once, and alone,” said master’s friend.
“I am rejoiced to meet you, and I hope it will all end well. But Beebee and Miss Morgan—”
“Yes, yes. Speak! Tell me the worst.”