That he was not yet quite himself, however, was readily apparent,
for meeting Mr. Poynter's unsmiling glance, he grew very white and
faint and begged for water.
Philip supplied it without a word. After an interval of unsympathetic
silence, during which the minstrel's eyes roved uncertainly about the
camp and returned each time to Philip's face in a fascinated stare, he
feebly strove to rise but fell back groaning.
"If--if I might stay here for but the night," he begged pathetically,
his accent slightly foreign.
"That's impossible!" said Philip curtly. "I'll help you to your rumpus
machine and back there in the village you will find an inn. My man
will go with you."
"Philip!" exclaimed Diane with spirit. "The man is ill."
"I'm not denying it," averred Philip stubbornly. "Nor is there any
denying the existence of the inn."
"How can you be so heartless!"
"One may also be prudent."
"He'll stay here of course if he wishes. The inn is a mile back."
"Diane!"
"Is he the first?" flashed Diane impetuously.
Philip reddened but his eyes were sombre. The knife and the bullet had
engendered a certain cynicism.
"As you will!" said he. And consigning to Johnny the care of the
invalid, who watched him depart with furtive relief, Philip strode off
through the woods.
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