Chapter 19.17 - Shirley

More than one deep crimson stain was visible on the gravel. A human body lay quiet on its face near the gates, and five or six wounded men writhed and moaned in the bloody dust. Miskildar's countenance changed at this view. It was the aftertaste of the battle, death and pain replacing excitement and exertion. It was the blackness, the bright fire leaves when its blazes sunk, its warmth failed and its glow faded. This is what I wish to prevent, she said in a voice whose cadence betrayed the altered impulse of her heart. But you could not prevent it. You did your best. It was in vain, said Caroline comfortingly. Don't grieve, Shirley. I am sorry for those poor fellows, was the answer, while the spark in her glance dissolved to dew. Are any within the mill hurt, I wonder? Is that your uncle? It is. And there is Mr. Malone. And, oh, Shirley, there is Robert. Well, resuming her former tone, don't squeeze your fingers quite into my hand. I see there is nothing wonderful in that. We knew he at least was here, whoever might be absent. He is coming here towards us, Shirley. Towards the pump, that is to say, for the purpose of washing his hands and his forehead, which has got a scratch, I perceive. He bleeds. Shirley, don't hold me. I must go. Not a step. He is hurt, Shirley. Fiddlestick. But I must go to him. I wish to go so much. I cannot bear to be restrained. What for? To speak to him. To ask how he is and what I can do for him. To tease and annoy him. To make a spectacle of yourself and him before those soldiers, Mr. Malone, your uncle, etc. Would he like it, think you? Would you like to remember it a week hence?