“God forgive me,” she cried. “Blood-guiltiness is upon me! I knew not what I did.”
And with this cry she threw the pistol from her, and dashed at once to the dragoon’s side.
“Thee is hurt,” she exclaimed looking up at him wildly. “Forgive me, friend. I meant not to harm thee. Oh, I meant it not!”
“Then why did you fire?” he demanded, regarding her with astonishment.
Peggy wrung her hands in anguish.
“I was afraid. Thee and thy troopers looked so terrible that I was in panic. I knew not what I did, friend. And thy arm! See how it bleeds! Sir, let me bandage it, I pray thee. I have some skill in such matters.”
Her distress was so evident, her contrition so sincere that the scowl on his face relaxed. Without further word he removed his coat, and let her examine the injured member while the dragoons gathered about them, eyeing the girl curiously. Her face grew deadly pale at sight of the blood that gushed forth from a wound near the elbow, but controlling her emotion she deftly applied a ligature, using her own kerchief for it.
“You’re a fine rebel,” was his comment as she completed the self-imposed task. “Shoot a man so that you can patch him up! ’Tis small wonder that you have skill in such matters. Gordon, bring me that pistol. ’Tis the first time that Banastre Tarleton hath been wounded in this war, and I am minded to keep the weapon that did it.”
“Is thee Colonel Tarleton?” asked she, her heart sinking.
“Yes,” he made answer, a peculiar light coming into his eyes at her involuntary shrinking. “And now, my fair rebel with the Quaker speech, will you tell me why one of your sect fires upon an officer of His Majesty? But perchance you are not a Quakeress?”