“No, no, no,” cried Frances, “it is fever; she is lightheaded—she must recover—she shall recover.”
The aunt caught joyfully at the hope conveyed in this suggestion, and dispatched Katy to request the immediate aid and advice of Dr. Sitgreaves. The surgeon was found inquiring among the men for professional employment, and inquisitively examining every bruise and scratch that he could induce the sturdy warriors to acknowledge they had received. A summons, of the sort conveyed by Katy, was instantly obeyed, and not a minute elapsed before he was by the side of Miss Peyton.
“This is a melancholy termination to so joyful a commencement of the night, madam,” he observed, in a soothing manner. “But war must bring its attendant miseries; though doubtless it often supports the cause of liberty, and improves the knowledge of surgical science.”
Miss Peyton could make no reply, but pointed to her niece.
“’Tis fever,” answered Frances; “see how glassy is her eye, and look at her cheek, how flushed.”
The surgeon stood for a moment, deeply studying the outward symptoms of his patient, and then he silently took her hand in his own. It was seldom that the hard and abstracted features of Sitgreaves discovered any violent emotion; all his passions seemed schooled, and his countenance did not often betray what, indeed, his heart frequently felt. In the present instance, however, the eager gaze of the aunt and sister quickly detected his emotions. After laying his fingers for a minute on the beautiful arm, which, bared to the elbow and glittering with jewels, Sarah suffered him to retain, he dropped it, and dashing a hand over his eyes, turned sorrowfully away.
“Here is no fever to excite—’tis a case, my dear madam, for time and care only; these, with the blessing of God, may effect a cure.”
“And where is the wretch who has caused this ruin?” exclaimed Singleton, rejecting the support of his man, and making an effort to rise from the chair to which he had been driven by debility. “It is in vain that we overcome our enemies, if, conquered, they can inflict such wounds as this.”
“Dost think, foolish boy,” said Lawton, with a bitter smile, “that hearts can feel in a colony? What is America but a satellite of England—to move as she moves, follow where she wists, and shine, that the mother country may become more splendid by her radiance? Surely you forget that it is honor enough for a colonist to receive ruin from the hand of a child of Britain.”
“I forget not that I wear a sword,” said Singleton, falling back exhausted; “but was there no willing arm ready to avenge that lovely sufferer—to appease the wrongs of this hoary father?”