“Not well for some time, and sharp attack of illness a few weeks ago. He has walked the whole way here from Valenciennes. Got a horse for himself, and at the last gave it up to young Carey—a poor consumptive young fellow. Said Carey needed it most. Just like him, you know. And then carrying that child for hours yesterday and to-day!”
“What for?”
“Child’s father hurt his foot, and could barely get along. And the little thing cried with everybody except Ivor. You know his way with children. But he’s about used up now. Get him home, and make him rest.”
Curtis went on, and Roy touched Denham’s arm.
“I’ll get a fiacre to drive you up the hill. Stay where you are till I come back. There’s one near.”
He rushed away, and happily was successful in his search.
Ivor had taken his seat, when Major Woodgate walked briskly up.
“Roy—got Ivor? That’s right,” he said in his quick fashion. “Don’t bring him to the citadel. I’ll go and answer for him, and fee the gendarmes, if needful. Just met Curtis, and heard what’s been going on. Done the hundred and fifty miles on foot, I’m told, and ill to begin with. A piece of Quixotism! I shall come and give you a bit of my mind, Ivor, another day. You don’t look up to understanding it now.”
Denham laughed slightly, but made no effort to defend himself, and they drove off, Roy watching his restored friend with a rapt gaze.
“Den, what was it for? Why didn’t you ride?”