The seconds were huddled together, talking of the novel phase of the affair; Lynn and Morton walking to and fro; the latter speaking earnestly, while Lynn's averted face showed he was not unmoved. Pemberton obeyed instructions to the letter; and with a trepidation and hurry which nearly betrayed Charley into a disgrace of the dignity of the occasion. After a grasp at Lynn's hand, he bowed hastily, summoned his attendants, and disappeared among the trees. The crack of the driver's whip proclaimed his departure. Thornton and Villet were profuse in their inquiries, but they were little wiser for Charley's replies. An exclamation from Morton interrupted them.
"You are wounded!" said he, pointing to Lynn's arm, from which the blood was oozing.
"Only a scratch," replied he.
Charley ripped up his sleeve; uncovering a flesh wound of no great depth. The ball had passed between his side and arm, grazing both;—its aim was the heart.
"If I had seen this sooner!" said Charley, involuntarily.
"What if you had?" inquired Lynn.
He made no reply, but proceeded to bind up the wound. "Gentlemen!" said he, when he had done;—"your carriage and breakfast are waiting. I take it, you have nothing more on hand this morning."
Thornton and Villet bowed, half-offended; Lynn lingered. "How are you going back?" he asked of Morton, but looking at Charley.
"Our horses are not far off," answered the former, kindly. "We will see you again in an hour or two."