"And then?" I muttered.
"Why, then Sir John would no longer be denied, and she must needs journey with him to Boston. I know that she herself did not understand why she was going, except that some legal affairs required her presence."
"And she left no word for me?"
"None with me. I heard her ask Sir John how soon you would be able to read if she wrote you, but Sir John shook his head without reply. Then she asked the doctor, and I think he told Miss Warren she might write in October if she remained in Boston as long as that. So, doubtless, the express is already galloping up the old post-road with your letter, Mr. Cardigan."
Presently—for I was becoming very tired—I asked about the two forest-runners who had brought me hither, not mentioning their names for prudence sake.
"I don't know where they are," said Mr. Duncan, rising to buckle on his sword. "The little, mild-spoken man disappeared the day that Sir John and Miss Warren left for Boston. The other, the big, swaggering fellow, abandoned by his running-mate, seemed astonished, and hunted about the village for a week, swearing that there was foul play somewhere, and that his comrade would never willingly have deserted him. Then our magistrate, Squire Bullock, was stopped and robbed on the King's highway—ay, and roundly cursed for a Tory thief—by this same graceless giant in buckskin who brought you here. They sought for him, but you know how those fellows travel. He may be in Quebec now, for aught I know—the impudent rascal."
After a moment I said, "Miss Warren, you say, cared for me while I lay ill?"
"Like a mother—or fond sister."
I closed my eyes partly.
He looked down at me and pressed my hand.