“The ould she-divil's done for this time, I'm a-thinking. Whist, I forgot she was a friend of yours, sor.”
“Where is she—at the receiving hospital? What is the matter with her?”
“Aisy, aisy, sor. It may be nothing. She's up stairs. A bit of a cut, they say. Here, Shaughnessy, look out for this door! I'll take ye up, sor.”
We mounted the creaking stairs in the light of the smoky lamp that stood on the bracket, and Corson opened a door for me.
A flickering candle played fantastic tricks with the furniture, sent shadows dancing over the dingy walls, and gave a weird touch to the two figures that bent over the bed in the corner. The figures straightened up at our entrance, and I knew them for the doctor and his assistant.
“A friend of the lady, sor,” whispered Corson.
The doctor looked at me in some surprise, but merely bowed.
“Is she badly hurt?” I asked.
“I've seen worse,” he answered in a low voice, “but—” and he completed the sentence by shrugging his shoulders, as though he had small hopes for his patient.
Mother Borton turned her head on the pillow, and her gaunt face lighted up at the sight of me. Her eyes shone with a strange light of their own, like the eyes of a night-bird, and there was a fierce eagerness in her look.