As he spoke he very carefully bound the linen bandage he had removed back in its place.
“Is it a sword-cut?” I asked.
“No, sahib; a bullet struck your helmet, and made a bad place within. It is not very serious, and if you are quiet, it will soon be well.”
“But where is Dr Danby? Why does he not come?” I asked; then, in a startled way, “He is not killed?”
The grey-bearded old fellow merely shook his head and repeated his injunction that I should not talk, and now began examining my left arm, which was firmly bandaged, and began to pain me severely at his touch.
“Is that a bullet wound?” I said in a whisper, for I felt that I must resign myself to my position, and, after the first shock, I began to feel rather proud that I had been wounded, for I felt not the slightest inclination to stir.
“No,” he said, as he removed bandage after bandage, “a cut from a tulwar just below the shoulder. You will be brave, and bear what I do without being faint? Yes,” he added, with a grave smile, “you English sahibs are brave. Hurt?”
“Hurt? Yes,” I said, with a wince. “Is it a big cut?”
“Yes,” he said softly; “a big cut—a bad cut, but it is beautiful, and will soon grow up again.”
“Are you going to put any of that smarting stuff on?” I asked.