CHAPTER XXIX
THE ESCORT
The figure of the man approaching was hardly distinguishable, as he appeared to be leaning well forward over the saddle pommel, yet my eyes caught the glimmer of a star along a pistol barrel, and I drew up cautiously, loosening my own weapon.
"Who comes?" he questioned shortly, the low voice vibrant. "Speak quick!"
"An officer with despatches," I answered promptly, "riding to Philadelphia—and you?"
"We are taking a wounded man home," was the reply, the speaker riding forward. "Are you Continental?"
"Yes. Major Lawrence, of Maxwell's Brigade."
"Oh!" the exclamation was half smothered, the rider drawing up his horse quickly. I could distinguish the outline of his form now, the straight, slender figure of a boy, wearing the tight jacket of a Dragoon, the face shadowed by a broad hat brim.
"Unless I mistake," I ventured cordially, "you must be Eric Mortimer."