"_Your_ heart's safe, Kennedy. I wish your head was. Your past master in
blasphemy out there won't eat it, at all events."
"Did ye get him, sorr,--afther all?"
"_I_ didn't. His English spoiled my aim. 'Twas Winsor shot him. Now,
you're to stay here, you and Kilmaine. The doctor may bring despatches,
and you follow us with the first to come." An orderly had led forth a
saddled horse, and Blake's foot was already in the stirrup. "They say
it was Red Fox himself, Kennedy," he added. "Where on earth did you meet
him before?"
"Shure, _I_ niver knew him, sorr," was the quick reply, as Blake's long,
lean leg swung over the big charger's back and the rider settled in
saddle.
"But he knew _you_ perfectly well. He dared you by name, when we closed
on them--you and Mr. Field."
And when an hour later the veteran surgeon came and knelt by the side of
the young officer reported seriously wounded, and took his hand and felt
his pulse, there was something in the situation that seemed to call for
immediate action. "We'll get you back to Frayne to-morrow, Field," said
Waller, with kind intent. "Don't--worry now."
"Don't do that, doctor," feebly, surprisingly moaned the fevered lad.
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