Lady Kingsland looked inquiringly.
"Did you not ride Sir Galahad?"
"Yes, until I was torn from the saddle! My dear mother, I met with an adventure last night, and you had like never to see your precious son again."
"Everard!"
"Quite true. But for the direct interposition of Providence, in the shape of a handsome lad in velveteen, who shot my assailant, I would be lying now in Brithlow Wood yonder, as dead as any Kingsland in the family vault."
And then, while Lady Kingsland gazed at him breathlessly, Sir Everard related his midnight adventure.
"Good heavens!" my lady cried, clasping him in her arms. "Oh, to think what might have happened! My boy—my boy!"
"Very true, mother; but a miss is as good as a mile, you know. Poetical justice befell my assailant; and here I am safe and sound, sipping chocolate."
"And the preserver of your life, Everard—where is he?"
"Upstairs, waiting like patience on a monument; and by the same token, fasting all this time! But it isn't a he, ma mère; it's a she."