"Nonsense!" he said, as lightly as he could. "That's not a wound—it is just a scratch. This one across my cheek hurts a blamed sight worse! If I could only wash it——"
"There is a little stream back yonder," she said, and sprang to her feet. "Come! Or perhaps you cannot walk!" and she put her arms around him to help him up.
He rose with a laugh.
"Really," he protested, "I don't see how a scratch on the shoulder could affect my legs!"
But she refused to make a jest of it.
"The blood—it frightens me. Are you very weak?" she asked, anxiously, holding tight to him, as though he might collapse at any instant.
"If I am," said Stewart, "it is from want of food, not from loss of blood. I haven't lost a spoonful. Ah, here's the brook!"
He knelt beside it, while she washed the blood from his handkerchief and tenderly bathed the injured shoulder. Stewart watched her with fast-beating heart. Surely she cared; surely there was more than friendly concern in that white face, in those quivering lips. Well, very soon now, he could put it to the touch. He trembled at the thought: would he win or lose?
"Am I hurting you?" she asked, anxiously, for she had felt him quiver.
"Not a bit—the cool water feels delightful. You see it is only a scratch," he added, when the clotted blood had been cleared away. "It will be quite well in two or three days. I sha'n't even have a scar! I think it might have left a scar! What's the use of being wounded, if one hasn't a scar to show for it? And I shall probably never be under fire again!"