"I thought it was Gordon's footstep," said the old lady, raising herself in bed to take the medicine that Fatimah was holding out to her.
"It's strange! Gordon's step is exactly like his grandfather's."
"Don't spill it, my lady," said Fatimah, and with a trembling hand the old lady drank off her dose.
"He's like his grandfather in other things, too. I remember when I was a girl there was a story of how he struck one of his soldiers in the Civil War, thinking the man was guilty of some offence. But afterwards he found the poor fellow was innocent, and had taken the blow for his brother without saying a word. Father never forgave himself for that—never!"
"Shall I put on the eider-down? The nights are cold if the days are hot, you know."
"Yes—no—just as you think best, nurse.... I'm sure Gordon will do what is right, whatever happens. I'm sorry for his father, though. Did you hear what he said when he came to bid me good-night?—'They think they've caught me now that they've caught my son, but let them wait—we'll see.'"
"Hush!" said Fatimah, and she pointed to the wall of the adjoining room. From the other side of it came the faint sound of measured footsteps.
"He's walking again—can't sleep, I suppose," said Fatimah in a drowsy whisper.
"Ah, well!" said the old lady, after listening for a moment. And then Fatimah put out the light and went back to her bed.
"God bless my boy!" said a tremulous voice in the darkness.