“No, Stubbs, I won’t,” replied Dick. “Yes, I am,” he added hastily. “My head.”
He let his sword fall to the extent of the knot, and took off his helmet.
“Quiet, Burnouse!” he cried, as the horse snorted and tore up the ground with his off forefoot. “My head’s all jarred and aching. My word! That’s saved me from an awful cut.”
The sergeant leaned forward to take the bright helmet from the lad’s hand, looking down at a deep, dinted bruise, and then at its owner.
“That saved your life, sir,” said Stubbs rather huskily. “Hurt anywhere else?”
“Right shoulder feels a bit dragged,” replied Dick. “But where’s Captain Wyatt?”
As he spoke the captain came into sight, riding back with about a dozen of the Rajah’s horsemen, who came up flushed with triumph, cheering after their fashion and crowding round Dick, all eager to shake hands.
The lad wanted to cry off, for his shoulder ached violently, but he bore all without a grimace, and drew a deep breath full of relief when he was at last alone with Wyatt, walking their horses towards where Captain Hulton was seated with the guns.
“I couldn’t get at you, of course, my lad,” said Wyatt, “but I did my best. I’m afraid two or three poor fellows will never fight again. It was every man for himself, eh? We had no business, though, to be surprised like that.”
“No,” said Dick. “How was it?”