The distressed James hurried me on, in the hope of hearing something to relieve our anxiety. We soon reached the gate, and springing from our horses, entered the little flower-garden in front. Although the sun had not yet risen, the sound of footsteps passing rapidly through the house was distinctly heard. Presently two persons, who appeared to be neighbors, came hastily out of the door to meet us.
“Is the doctor with you?” inquired one of them.
“What doctor? Who is injured?” exclaimed James, rushing past them into the house.
I followed him, trembling in every limb. Several persons were in the room we entered, but I saw but one—and what a sight was that?
Stretched on a bed, lay a tall form motionless. The face was turned toward the wall, but the pale hands were white as the counterpane. With a cry of agony and grief, James threw himself on his knees by its side. I saw no more, for nature gave way, and I sunk on the door in a state of insensibility.
When restored to perfect consciousness, I found myself lying on a sofa in a small parlor. The window shutters were half closed to exclude the light.
“Where am I?” I exclaimed, attempting to rise, but a gentle hand prevented me, and turning I saw a lady, advanced in life, but with a most benignant countenance, who had been watching by my couch. It was the mother of Bertha, the widow of an American officer.
“Be composed, sir,” she said, “we have all suffered much anxiety on your account, and your friend Ernest would not leave the house until assured you were in no danger.”
“Ernest!” I exclaimed, “is he alive? Oh, Heaven be praised!”