or as they went.

Peyton, too pain-racked and exhausted to speak, lay back on the sofa,
with closed eyes. Old Valentine stared at him a few moments; then,
curious both as to this unexpected advent and as to the proximity of
supper, rose and hobbled from the parlor and across the hall to the
dining-room. For some time Peyton was left alone. He opened his eyes,
studied the flying figures on the ceiling, the portraits on the
walls, the carpet,--Philipse Manor-house, like the best English houses
of the time, had carpet on its floors,--the carving of the mantel, the
clock and candelabrum thereupon, the crossed rapiers thereabove, the
curves of the imported furniture. His twinges and aches were so many
and so diverse that he made no attempt to locate them separately. He
could feel that the left leg of his breeches was soaked with blood.

Finally the door opened, and in came Williams and Cuff, the former
with shears and bands of linen, the latter with a basin of water.
Williams, whom Peyton had not before seen, scrutinized him critically,
and forthwith proceeded to expose, examine, wash, and bind up the
wounded leg, while Cuff stood by and played the role of surgeon's
assistant. Peyton speedily perceived on the steward's part a reliable
acquaintance with the art of dressing cuts, and therefore submitted
without a word to his operations. Williams was equally silent,
breaking his reticence only now and then to utter some monosyllabic
command to Cuff.

When the wound was dressed, Williams put the patient's disturbed
attire to rights, and adjusted his hair. Peyton, with a feeling of
some relief, made to stretch the wounded leg, but a sharp twinge cut
the movement short.

"You should make a good surgeon," Peyton said at last, "you tie so
damnably tight a bandage."

"I've bound up many a wound, sir," said Williams; "and some far worse
than yours. 'Tis not a dangerous cut, yours, though 'twill be
irritating while it lasts. You won't walk for a day or two."

"It's remarkable your mistress has so much trouble taken with me, when
she intends to deliver me to the British."

Peyton had inferred the steward's place in the house, from his
appearance and manner.

"Why, sir," said Williams, "we couldn't have you bleeding over the
floor and furniture. Besides, I suppose she wants to hand you over in
good condition."

"I see! No bedraggled remnant of a man, but a complete, clean, and
comfortable candidate for Cunningham's gallows!"