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Maggie looked bewildered for a moment, and Tom enjoyed that moment keenly; but in the next she laughed, clapped her hands together, and said, “O Tom, you’ve made yourself like Bluebeard at the show.”

It was clear she had not been struck with the presence of the sword–it was not unsheathed. Her foolish mind required a more direct appeal to its sense of the terrible; and Tom prepared for his master-stroke. Frowning fiercely, he (carefully) drew the sword–a real one–from its sheath and pointed it at Maggie.

“O Tom, please don’t,” cried Maggie, in a tone of dread, shrinking away from him into the opposite corner; “I shall scream–I’m sure I shall! Oh, don’t! I wish I’d never come upstairs!”

The corners of Tom’s mouth showed an inclination to a smile that was immediately checked. Slowly he let down the scabbard on the floor lest it should make too much noise, and then said sternly,–

“I’m the Duke of Wellington! March!” stamping forward with the right leg a little bent, and the sword still pointed towards Maggie, who, trembling, and with tear-filled eyes, got upon the bed, as the only means of widening the space between them.

Tom, happy in this spectator, even though it was only Maggie, proceeded to such an exhibition of the cut and thrust as would be expected of the Duke of Wellington.

“Tom, I will not bear it–I will scream,” said Maggie, at the first movement of the sword. “You’ll hurt yourself; you’ll cut your head off!”

“One–two,” said Tom firmly, though at “two” his wrist trembled a little. “Three” came more slowly, and with it the sword swung downwards, and Maggie gave a loud shriek. The sword had fallen with its edge on Tom’s foot, and in a moment after he had fallen too.

Maggie leaped from the bed, still shrieking, and soon there was a rush of footsteps towards the room. Mr. Stelling, from his upstairs study, was the first to enter. He found both the children on the floor. Tom had fainted, and Maggie was shaking him by the collar of his jacket, screaming, with wild eyes.

She thought he was dead, poor child! And yet she shook him, as if that would bring him back to life. In another minute she was sobbing with joy because Tom had opened his eyes. She couldn’t sorrow yet that he had hurt his foot; it seemed as if all happiness lay in his being alive.

In a very short time the wounded hero was put to bed, and a surgeon was fetched, who dressed the wound with a serious face which greatly impressed every one.

Chapter XIII.

PHILIP AND MAGGIE.

Poor Tom bore his severe pain like a hero, but there was a terrible dread weighing on his mind–so terrible that he dared not ask the question which might bring the fatal “yes”–he dared not ask the surgeon or Mr. Stelling, “Shall I be lame, sir?”

It had not occurred to either of these gentlemen to set the lad’s mind at rest with hopeful words. But Philip watched the surgeon out of the house, and waylaid Mr. Stelling to ask the very question that Tom had not dared to ask for himself.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but does Mr. Askern say Tulliver will be lame?”

“Oh no, oh no,” said Mr. Stelling; “only for a little while.”

“Did he tell Tulliver so, sir, do you think?”

“No; nothing was said to him on the subject.”

“Then I may go and tell him, sir?”

“Yes, to be sure. Now you mention it, I dare say he may be troubling about that. Go to his bedroom, but be very quiet.”

It had been Philip’s first thought when he heard of the accident, “Will Tulliver be lame? It will be very hard for him if he is.” And Tom’s offences against himself were all washed out by that pity.