Behind the bier walked the assistant surgeon.
This procession was simply that of the hospital nurses bringing in the mutilated man, still in the deep swoon of chloroform, and under the personal direction of the doctor.
But as they approached, Elfie turned deadly pale and faint, and gasped forth the inquiry:
“Is he gone? Oh, is he gone? Has he died under that dreadful operation?”
“Oh, no, Miss,” said the young soldier, kindly; “he is only unconscious. They will recover him as soon as they get him on the cot again.”
Elfie caught her breath and clasped her hands, and struggled for composure.
The soldier nurses lifted the mattress, with its nearly lifeless burden, and laid it on the cot, and then turned down the sheet, and revealed the face of Albert Goldsborough, livid, but quiet, like the faces of those who have recently fallen asleep in death.
Elfie, holding her hands upon her heart, drew near, and took courage to ask the assistant surgeon:
“Doctor, oh, Doctor, how did he bear the operation? Will he survive it? Oh, will he?”
The surgeon turned, and seeing the anxious and pleading face, guessed at once that the inquirer was “something” to the sufferer, and answered perhaps more kindly than truly: