Fortescue ran once more to his friend. Two or three peasants, who were entering the field at the moment, were called to aid. The wounded man was raised, and, on the arms of all, carried fainting from the spot.
Elinor and her companion fled from the inn, wherefore one of them knew not. The luggage of Sinclair had been hastily removed from the carriage, and deposited in the house, but not with necessary speed. As the ill-fated woman was whirled from the door, her eye caught the small and melancholy procession leisurely advancing. One inquiring gaze, which even the assiduity of Lord Minden could not intercept, made known to her the presence, and convinced her of the fact. She screamed,—but proceeded with her paramour, whilst her husband was cared for by his friend.
A surgeon was sent for from the nearest town, who, arriving late at night, deemed it expedient to amputate the patient's arm without delay. The operation was performed without immediately removing the fears which, after a first examination, the surgeon had entertained for the life of the wounded man. The injury inflicted upon an excited system threw the sufferer into a fever, in which he lay for days without relief or hope. The cloud, however, passed away, after much suffering during the flitting hours of consciousness and reason. The afflicted man was finally hurled upon life's shore again, prostrate, exhausted, spent. His first scarce-audible accents had reference to his daughter.
"My child!" he whispered imploringly, to a sister of charity ministering at his side.
"Will be with you shortly," replied the devoted daughter of heaven, who had been with the sufferer for many days.
Rupert shook his head.
"Be calm," continued the religious nurse; "recover strength; enable yourself to undergo the sorrow of an interview, and you shall see her. She is well provided for: she is happy—she is here!"
"Here!" faintly ejaculated Rupert, and looking languidly about him.
"Yes, and very near you. In a day or two she shall come and comfort you."
The benevolent woman spoke the truth. When she had first been summoned to the bed-side of the wounded man, she diligently inquired into the circumstances of the case, and learned as much as was necessary of his sad history from the faithful Fortescue. It was her suggestion that the child should forthwith be removed from Paris, and brought under the same roof with her father. She knew, with a woman's instinct,—little as she had mixed with the world,—how powerful a restorative would be the prattle of that innocent voice, when the moment should arrive to employ it without risk.