“Well, Charlie,” said Waldron, casting a pitying glance at the yet pallid face and anxious eyes of the youth, “you have had a sad fright. I make you very miserable.”
“He has found us at last,” murmured Charlie in a tremulous soprano voice. “What did he say?”
“We are to talk to-morrow. He acts as my aide-de-camp to-day. I ought to tell you frankly that he is not friendly.”
“Of course, I knew it,” sighed Charlie, while the tears fell.
“It is only one more trouble—one more danger, and perhaps it may pass. So many have passed.”
“Did you tell him anything to quiet him? Did you tell him that we were married?”
“But we are not married yet, Charlie. We shall be, I hope.”
“But you ought to have told him that we were. It might stop him from doing something—mad. Why didn’t you tell him so? Why didn’t you think of it?”
“My dear little child, we are about to have a battle. I should like to carry some honor and truth into it.”
“Where is he?” continued Charlie, unconvinced and unappeased. “I want to see him. Is he at the head of the column? I want to speak to him, just one word. He won’t hurt me.”