There in slanting golden light of the new-risen sun stood a
breathless, wild-eyed man and a steaming horse. Smothered in dust
and grime, his clothes in disarray, the left sleeve of his doublet
hanging in rags, this young man opened his lips to speak, yet for
a long moment remained speechless.

In that moment Mr. Blood recognized him for the young shipmaster,
Jeremiah Pitt, the nephew of the maiden ladies opposite, one who
had been drawn by the general enthusiasm into the vortex of that
rebellion. The street was rousing, awakened by the sailor's noisy
advent; doors were opening, and lattices were being unlatched for
the protrusion of anxious, inquisitive heads.

"Take your time, now," said Mr. Blood. "I never knew speed made
by overhaste."

But the wild-eyed lad paid no heed to the admonition. He plunged,
headlong, into speech, gasping, breathless.

"It is Lord Gildoy," he panted. "He is sore wounded ... at
Oglethorpe's Farm by the river. I bore him thither ... and ...
and he sent me for you. Come away! Come away!"

He would have clutched the doctor, and haled him forth by force in
bedgown and slippers as he was. But the doctor eluded that too
eager hand.

"To be sure, I'll come," said he. He was distressed. Gildoy had
been a very friendly, generous patron to him since his settling in
these parts. And Mr. Blood was eager enough to do what he now