“Boom-oom-me! crash! splash!” came the cannon ball from the Sea Scourge, tearing its way over their heads, and dropping into the sea before them.
Britomarte stood like a statue, absolutely unshaken by the tremendous shock.
“Were you not frightened?” asked the doctor, in amazement.
“No; why should I be?” she coolly demanded.
“Nay, why should you not be?”
“In the first place, because I have no fear of death; in the second, because I have no great love of life. If I could feel fear, I should rush to the very front of danger to cure myself of the weakness.”
“I believe you would. You are formed of the metal of which heroes are made!”
“Let me help you,” said Britomarte, feeling impatient of his praise, and pointing to the basket of linen bandages and lint that she carried in her hand.
“Well, my child, you can help me, and you may. And at least you had better be down below with me binding up wounds, than up on deck with the gunners helping to make them, as I think was your first aspiration,” replied the doctor.
“Yes,” said Britomarte, “I should like to serve at one of the guns, but since I am not permitted to do so, I am willing to be useful in any other way. And you will find that I shall not dress our brave sailor’s wounds any the less tenderly because I should prefer to make wounds for other people to dress on the bodies of the foemen!”