Barely had he begun to hope for this when the door he guarded was opened slightly from within. His mem-sahib, strangely white and still, looked forth.
"Peter!" she said gently.
He was up in a moment, bending before her, his black eyes glowing in the dim light.
She laid her slender hand upon his shoulder. She had ever treated him with the graciousness of a queen. "How is your wound?" she asked him in her soft, low voice. "Has it been properly bathed and dressed?"
He straightened himself, looking into her beautiful pale face with the loving reverence that he always accorded her. "All is well, my mem-sahib," he said. "Will you not be graciously pleased to rest?"
She shook her head, smiling faintly—a smile that somehow tore his heart. She opened her door and motioned him to enter. "I think I had better see for myself," she said. "Poor Peter! How you must have suffered, and how splendidly brave you are! Come in and let me see what I can do!"
He hung back protesting; but she would take no refusal, gently but firmly overruling all his scruples.
"Why was the doctor not sent for?" she said. "I ought to have thought of it myself."
She insisted upon washing and bandaging his wound anew. It was a deep one. Necessity had been stern, and Everard had not spared. It had bled freely, and there was no sign of any poisonous swelling. With tender hands Stella treated it, Peter standing dumbly submissive the while.
When she had finished, she arranged the injured arm in a sling, and looked him in the eyes.