“Thet’s the name, but—quick—water! water!” A drink was immediately given him.
“Who were your companions, and where are they? Tell me what has become of Miss Lear!” but before any reply could be made to these questions, a short, burly individual, a surgeon, had elbowed his way through the crowd and reached the wounded man.
He had accompanied the dragoons on the expedition, evidently more for the sake of adventure than from any expectation that his medical services would be required.
He had joined in the pursuit on foot, and it was several minutes after the dragoons had returned to the house, before he made his appearance.
Thrusting back the men who were collected around, eager to hear what the Tory had to say, he proceeded to examine the man’s wound.
The ball had entered the upper part of the shoulder, but striking the blade, had taken a downward course and come out at the back.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” said the surgeon, after he had finished bandaging the injury; “the man has bled profusely, which has made him weak, but in a few hours he will be all right again.”
“What! then I’ll yet live?” exclaimed the man, with a nervous shudder, a deathlike pallidness overspreading his countenance.
“Why, certainly! you are worth a dozen dying men.”
At these words the man sunk back with a groan.