As he spoke, the heavy report of a cannon told that one of the pieces mounted at the main gate was being brought into action.
The sergeant went off without a word; and as the men stood to their guns, ready for anything that might befall them now, Dick followed Wyatt into the hospital room.
“Now, Dick, lad,” he said hoarsely, “you are a doctor’s son; for heaven’s sake, bring all you know to bear. Hulton first.”
The lad was already unbuckling his belt; his heavy helmet followed, and, with a strange feeling of horror and dismay attacking him now after the wild excitement of the fight, he bent down over Hulton, who lay upon a charpoy, perfectly insensible, and with his face of a strangely pallid hue, contracted, too, as if by approaching death.
Chapter XX.
Playing the Doctor.
In answer to the call made upon him—a tremendous call at such a time—Dick carefully removed the captain’s jacket, soaked with blood, back and breast telling plainly enough the kind of wound with which he had to deal; and, as it was drawn and ripped off, there was a sharp rap upon the floor, from which Wyatt stooped to pick up a ragged jezail bullet, which, discharged at so short a distance, had passed right through the poor fellow’s chest.
Wyatt looked at Dick inquiringly.
“I am not doctor enough to know,” whispered the lad. “I can only plug and bind the wounds. A vital part may not be touched.”
Wyatt’s lip quivered slightly under his great moustache, but he said nothing, only looked on, while one of the men proved himself an able aid in producing lint and bandages from the doctor’s valise.