"Are you hurt?" asked Wynne.
"Not badly. We had a little bout with a British corvette. Captain Biddle will tell you, sir. St. Denis! but it was fun while it lasted; and the cutting out, too."
"I envy you," said Wynne, with swift remembrance of the market-place in Germantown, the glow of battle in his gray Welsh eyes.
De Courval's face lighted up at the thought of it. "But now," he said—"now I must see my mother—oh, at once."
"The tide is at full flood. A boat shall drop you at the foot of the garden. Can you walk up from the shore, or shall I send you a chaise?"
"I can walk, sir." He was too eager to consider his weakness, and strong hands helping him into and out of the boat, in a few minutes, for the distance was small, he was set ashore at the foot of the garden, now bare and leafless. He dismissed the men with thanks, and declared he required no further help. With much-needed care he limped up the slope, too aware of pain and of an increase of weakness that surprised him, but nevertheless with a sense of exhilaration at the thought of coming home—yes, home—after having done what he well knew would please his mother. No other thought was in his mind.
Of a sudden he heard voices, and, looking up, saw Mrs. Swanwick and Margaret. Gay, excited, and happy, he stumbled forward as they came, the girl crying out: "The vicomte, mother!"
"Ah, but it is good to see you!" he said as he took the widow's hand and kissed it, and then the girl's, who flushed hot as he rose unsteadily. Seeing her confusion, he said: "Pardon me. It is our way at home, and I am so, so very glad to get back to you all!"
"But—thou art lame!" cried the widow, troubled.
"And his face—he is hurt, mother!"