"He is nearly unconscious," said the surgeon. "Dear me! sir, what a time this is for Bristol. This is the sixth case brought in since noon. God knows where the riots will end! You were sworn in as a special constable, I suppose?"
"Yes, but to little purpose. Resistance is useless, unless well organised."
"That's true enough; but there is no head, that's the mischief of it; no head anywhere. Do you live in Bristol, sir?"
"In Great George Street; I am returning there now. You will look after this man?"
"Yes; but he won't get over it. A bad subject—a very bad subject. He is very prostrate," the surgeon continued, laying a professional finger on the great muscular wrist; "his hours are numbered. That's a bad blow on your forehead, sir; let me put a bandage on; and how are you getting home?"
"As I came, I suppose. There seems a lull in the uproar now, and I shall be able to get back by Trinity Street and up by Brandon Hill."
Gilbert submitted to the bandage, and thankfully drank a reviving draught, which the surgeon gave him, and then he turned his face homewards.
He was dizzy and bewildered, and did not feel as if he could again face the crowd, so he reached home by a circuitous road, entering Great George Street from the upper end.
It was nearly one o'clock before he stood by his own door, and he found two of his friends, who had served with him as special constables, coming out. They had left Queen's Square empty, they said, and not a rioter was to be seen there, and the troops had returned to their quarters.
Joyce, hearing her husband's voice, came downstairs, and not a moment too soon. Thoroughly exhausted, and suffering from the blow on his head, he would have fallen, had not his two friends caught him and carried him, at Joyce's request, to his own room.