“I wish you to send black Sam to me,” said she to the steward, “and to take his place on guard with the gun till he returns from an errand.”
Williams departed, and Elizabeth began to make the quill fly over the paper, her aunt looking on from beside the table. Peyton opened his eyes and looked at them.
“It does seem a pity,” said Miss Sally at last. “Such a pretty gentleman,—such a gallant soldier!”
“Gentleman?” echoed Elizabeth, writing on. “The fellow is not a gentleman! Nor a gallant soldier!”
Peyton rose to a sitting posture as if stung by a hornet, but was instantly reminded of his wound. But neither Elizabeth nor her aunt saw or heard his movement. The girl, unaware that he was awake, continued:
“Does a gentleman or a gallant soldier desert the army of his king to join that of his king’s enemies?”
Quick came the answer,—not from aunt Sally, but from Peyton on the sofa.
“A gallant soldier has the right to choose his side, and a gentleman need not fight against his country!”
Elizabeth did not suffer herself to appear startled at this sudden breaking in. Having finished her note, she quietly folded it, and addressed it, while she said: