“And you have done it, sir,” grumbled the sergeant. “I’m afraid he isn’t going to come to.”
Barton bent down over the man, who, I now saw, by a stable-lantern, was bleeding from the head, and the chill of horror increased as the lieutenant rose.
“Here,” he said; “carry him into hospital. Be smart. You, sergeant, go and rouse up the doctor.”
“Yes, sir;” and the men hurried off.
“He’ll be pleased,” said Barton to me, with a cynical laugh. “He has had nothing but cholera cases and a broken arm to see to for months. But, I say, Don Quixote, you’ve put your foot in it this time.”
“Enough to make me.” I cried petulantly. “I can’t stand by and see men such brutes.”
We stopped and saw the insensible man carried into the building used as an infirmary, and by that time the doctor, who had been dining with Major Lacey—Brace being of the party—came into the building, and was followed by the above-named officers, who looked on in silence till the surgeon made his report.
“Concussion of the brain, I’m afraid,” he said shortly. “Bad for a man in his state. This fellow is always on the drink. He must have fallen very heavily. Was he fighting?”
“Yes—no,” I said, rather confusedly.
“Not very clear, Vincent,” said the major. “Which was he doing?”