“I am quite sure,” answered a man's voice from somewhere out in the light. “It is a bad cut, and he is just recovering from the effect of the ether. Had the blow not been a glancing one his skull would have been crushed. He will be perfectly conscious in a short time. There is no concussion, your Highness.”
“I am so happy to hear you say that,” said the soft voice. Lorry's eyes sought hers and thanked her. A lump came into his throat as he looked up into the tender, anxious blue eyes. A thrill came over him. Princess or not, he loved her—he loved her! “You were very brave—oh, so brave!” she whispered in his ear, her hand touching his hair caressingly. “My American!”
He tried to reach the hand before it faded, but he was too weak. She glided away, and he closed his eyes again as if in pain.
“Look up, old man; you're all right,” said Anguish. “Smell this handkerchief. It will make you feel better.” A moist cloth was held beneath his nose, and a strong, pungent odor darted through his nostrils. In a moment he tried to raise himself to his elbow. The world was clearing up.
“Lie still a bit, Lorry. Don't be too hasty. The doctor says you must not.”
“Where am I, Harry?” asked the wounded man, weakly.
“In the castle. I'll tell you all about it presently.”
“Am I in her room?”
“No, but she is in yours. You are across the hall in”—here he whispered—“Uncle Caspar's room. Caspar is a Count.”
“And she is the Princess—truly?”