There was no resisting this, so Edgar turned, not unwillingly, and gave his arm to Aileen, who seized it with a grateful eagerness that sent a thrill of delight through all his frame.
“Come along, my lads,” he cried. “Take care of Miss Pritty, poor thing!” he added, turning to Rooney.
The Irishman obeyed. He stooped and lifted her in his arms. She had been lying in a state of semi-insensibility with her eyes tightly shut. The moment she felt herself being lifted, she clutched her protector by the hair, and held on, shrieking.
“Ay, tug away, cushla!” said Rooney, as he moved after his friends, “it’s not much of that ye’ll manage to root up.”
“Have you seen my father?” asked Aileen, anxiously, as they moved on together.
“He is safe,” answered Edgar; “I found him exhausted in the hut which he told me you had occupied, and had him conveyed on board the gun-boat.”
“Thank God!” exclaimed Aileen, fervently, “but,” she added, with a slight shudder, “it seemed to me as if his mind had been unhinged—and—and he was wounded.”
“A mere scratch on the temple,” said Edgar, “yet sufficient, with surrounding circumstances, to account for the temporary madness that assailed him. Fear not, Aileen, he is safe now, through God’s mercy, and you shall soon be safe beside him.”
A feeling of deep gratitude and restfulness stole over the poor girl’s spirit, and she almost wept for joy as they stepped into a small boat, and were rowed over the calm water to the gun-boat, which lay, black and still, under the deep shadow of a bank of luxuriant foliage.
“My child,” said Mr Hazlit, sadly, as they reclined together on the couches of the little cabin, while Edgar sat on a camp-stool near them, Miss Pritty having been consigned to the captain’s berth, “they tell me that this fearful work is not yet over. There is to be more fighting and bloodshed.”