Perhaps she was wounded more seriously than he had thought—perhaps she had not told him. He must see—he must make sure——
He found himself in a tiled passage, opening into a low-ceilinged room lighted by a single window. For an instant, in the semi-darkness, he stared blindly; then he saw a low settle against the farther wall, and upon this he gently laid his burden.
Before he could catch himself, he had fallen heavily to the floor, and lay there for a moment, too weak to rise. But the weakness passed. With set teeth, he pulled himself to his knees, got out his knife, found, with his fingers, the stain of blood above the wound in the leg, and quickly ripped away the cloth.
The bullet had passed through the thickness of the thigh, leaving a tiny puncture. With a sob of thankfulness, he realized that the wound was not dangerous. Blood was still oozing slowly from it—it must be washed and dressed.
He found a pail of water in the kitchen, snatched a sheet from a bed in another room, and set to work. The familiar labor steadied him, the mists cleared, his muscles again obeyed his will, the sense of exhaustion passed.
“It is only a scratch!” whispered a voice, and he turned sharply to find her smiling up at him. “It is just a scratch like yours!”
“It is much more than a scratch!” he said, sternly. “You must lie still, or you will start the bleeding.”
“Tyrant!” she retorted, and then she raised her head and looked to see what he was doing. “Oh! is it there?” she said, in surprise. “I didn’t feel it there.”
“Where did you feel it?” Stewart demanded. “Not in the body? Tell me the truth!”
“It seemed to me to be somewhere below the knee. But how savage you are!”