“Pooh! no; not a bit more than if you had cut your finger with a sharp knife. Now, if the bullet had gone in there, or there, or there, or into his thick young head,” said the doctor, making pokes at the lad’s body as he lay on the bed, “we should have some excuse for being anxious; but a boy who has had his arm scratched by a bullet! The idea is absurd. I say, colonel, are boys of any good whatever in the world?”
“Oh yes, some of them,” said the colonel, smiling and giving Frank a kindly nod. “Good night, my lad. There will be no need for you to sit up, I think.”
“Not a bit, Gowan,” said the doctor quietly. “Don’t fidget, boy. He’ll be all right.”
Frank looked at him dubiously.
“I mean it, my lad,” he said, in quite a different tone of voice. “You may trust me. Good night.”
He shook hands warmly with the boy, and all but Captain Murray left the chamber, talking about the scare that the shots had created in the Palace.
“I hear they thought the Pretender had dropped in,” said the doctor jocosely. Then the door was shut, and the sound cut off.
“I’ll leave you now, Frank, my lad,” said Captain Murray. “Take one of the pillows, and lie down in the next room on the couch. There’s an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. I will speak to my servant to be on the alert, and to come if you ring. Don’t scruple to do so, if you think there is the slightest need, and he will fetch the doctor at once. You will lie down?”
“If you think I may,” said Frank, as he walked with him to the door of the sitting-room, beyond earshot of the occupant of the bed.
“I am sure you may, my boy. The doctor only confirmed my own impression, and I feel sure he would know at a glance.”