And, while they stood open-mouthed yet dumb, in came the Scamp, and, with a brisk assumption of delegated authority, took Griffith's weapon out of his now unresisting hand; then marched to Neville. He instantly saluted Catherine, and then handed his pistol to her seeming agent, with a high-bred and inimitable air of utter nonchalance.
Kate, seeing them to her surprise so easily disarmed, raised her hands and her lovely eyes to Heaven, and in a feeble voice, thanked God and St. Nescioquis.
But very soon that faint voice quavered away to nothing, and her fair head was seen to droop, and her eyes to close; then her body sank slowly forward like a broken lily; and in another moment she lay fainting on the snow beside her steaming horse.
He never moved, he was so dead beat too.
O lame and impotent conclusion of a vigorous exploit! Masculine up to the crowning point, and then to go and spoil all with "woman's weakness."
"N.B.: This is rote sarcasticul," as Artemus, the delicious, says. Woman's weakness! If Solomon had planned and Samson executed, they could not have served her turn better than this most seasonable swooning did. For lo! at her fall the doughty combatants uttered a yell of dismay, and there was an indiscriminate rush towards the fair sufferer.
But the surgeon claimed his rights:—"This is my business," said he, authoritatively; "do not crowd on her, gentlemen; give her air."
Whereupon the duelists and seconds stood respectfully aloof in a mixed group, and watched with eager interest and pity.
The surgeon made a hole in the snow and laid his fair patient's head low. "Don't be alarmed," said he: "she has swooned; that is all."
It was all mighty fine to say don't be alarmed. But her face was ashy, and her lips the color of lead: and she was so like death, they could not help being terribly alarmed: and now, for the first time, the duelists felt culprits; and, as for fighting, every idea of such a thing went out of their heads: the rivals now were but rival nurses: and never did a lot of women make more fuss over a child, than all these bloodthirsty men did over this Amazon manquée. They produced their legendary lore: one's grandmother had told him burnt feathers were the thing; another, from an equally venerable source, had gathered that those pink palms must be profanely slapped by the horny hand of a man; for at no less a price could resuscitation be obtained. The surgeon scorning all their legends, Griffith and Neville made hasty rushes with brandy and usquebaugh; but whether to be taken internally or externally, they did not say, nor indeed know; but only thrust their flasks wildly on the doctor: and he declined them loftily. He melted snow in his hand, and dashed it hard in her face; and put salts close to her pretty little nostrils. And this he repeated many times, without effect.