He lay quite still, groaning every now and then until I had finished. Then I drew the counterpane over him and waited for a moment or two. He opened his eyes and looked at me.
“I am going to send for a doctor,” I whispered, leaning over him.
He clutched my hand.
“I forbid it,” he answered, hoarsely. “Do not dare to think of it, Kate! Do you hear?”
“But this is serious!” I cried. “You will be very ill.”
“It is only a flesh wound,” he muttered. “I scarcely feel it; only—I drew the bandage too tightly.”
“How long have you had it?” I asked.
He looked towards the door; it was closed.
“Since I was in London. It was a cowardly attack—the night before I returned. I have gone armed ever since. I am safe now—quite safe.”
I was sorely perplexed. He was watching me with bright, feverish eyes.