“Yes, Miss.”
“But—why have they taken him there?” she found power at last to ask.
“To amputate his leg, poor fellow!”
“‘To amputate his leg!’” exclaimed Elfie, again echoing the soldier’s words.
“Yes, Miss, it was the only way of saving his life, it seems. This morning when the assistant surgeon looked at his wound, he sent immediately for the surgeon in charge, and they both examined it together and decided that the leg must be taken off at once, if the man’s life was to be saved.
Elfie, unable to stand, sank pale and trembling down upon Albert Goldsborough’s empty bed, and sitting there, with clasped hands and strained eyes, waited for the soldier’s farther words.
“The poor fellow objected very much; said that his leg had ceased to give any pain at all; that it was quite easy; and, except for weakness, he never felt better in his life; he had had the best night’s rest he had ever enjoyed; his leg hadn’t troubled him once; and he had waked up this morning quite refreshed though rather feeble.”
“Then why did they persist in the operation?” cried Elfie.
“To save his life, Miss, as they explained to him. His freedom from pain was, under the circumstances, the worst possible symptom. Mortification had commenced in the wound and was rapidly extending upward, and it became necessary to amputate the limb without delay.”
“And then he consented?” wept Elfie.