“That, sir, you may safely say; this Mr. Lawton, who sees so far, had me in custody again immediately.”
“Why you no hold ’em in, Massa Henry?” cried Caesar, pettishly.
“That,” said Wharton, smiling, “was a thing easier said than done, Mr. Caesar, especially as these gentlemen” (glancing his eyes at the guides) “had seen proper to deprive me of the use of my better arm.”
“Wounded!” exclaimed both sisters in a breath.
“A mere scratch, but disabling me at a most critical moment,” continued the brother, kindly, and stretching out the injured limb to manifest the truth of his declaration. Caesar threw a look of bitter animosity on the irregular warriors who were thought to have had an agency in the deed, and left the room. A few more words sufficed to explain all that Captain Wharton knew relative to the fortune of the day. The result he thought yet doubtful, for when he left the ground, the Virginians were retiring from the field of battle.
“They had treed the squirrel,” said one of the sentinels abruptly, “and didn’t quit the ground without leaving a good hound for the chase when he comes down.”
“Aye,” added his comrade dryly, “I’m thinking Captain Lawton will count the noses of what are left before they see their whaleboats.”
Frances had stood supporting herself, by the back of a chair, during this dialogue, catching, in breathless anxiety, every syllable as it was uttered; her color changed rapidly; her limbs shook under her; until, with desperate resolution, she inquired,—
“Is any officer hurt on—the—on either side?”
“Yes,” answered the man, cavalierly, “these Southern youths are so full of mettle, that it’s seldom we fight but one or two gets knocked over; one of the wounded, who came up before the troops, told me that Captain Singleton was killed, and Major Dunwoodie—”