Duane and Doty occasionally tiptoed in to
glance inquiry at the fanning attendant, and then tiptoed out. Mullins
had been growing worse and was a very sick man. Downs, the wretch, was
painfully, ruefully, remorsefully sobered over at the post of the
guard, and of Graham's feminine patients the one most in need,
perhaps, of his ministration was giving the least trouble. While Aunt
Janet paced restlessly about the lower floor, stopping occasionally to
listen at the portal of her brother, Angela Wren lay silent and only
sometimes sighing, with faithful Kate Sanders reading in low tone by
the bedside.
The captains had gone back to their quarters, conferring in subdued
voices. Plume, with his unhappy young adjutant, was seated on the
veranda, striving to frame his message to Wren, when the crack of a
whip, the crunching of hoofs and wheels, sounded at the north end of
the row, and down at swift trot came a spanking, four-mule team and
Concord wagon. It meant but one thing, the arrival of the general's
staff inspector straight from Prescott.
It was the very thing Plume had urged by telegraph, yet the very fact
that Colonel Byrne was here went to prove that the chief was far from
satisfied that the major's diagnosis was the right one. With soldierly
alacrity, however, Plume sprang forward to welcome the coming
dignitary, giving his hand to assist him from the dark interior into
the light.
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