“Never mind about my qualities,” said Frank, with a little laugh; “it is like trying to put me off from talking about you. As I was going to say, don’t you remember telling me that whenever you were going to perform an operation upon some poor suffering fellow-creature you always felt a strong sensation of shrinking and want of nerve?”
“Of course. I always do.”
“And that you always prayed that your efforts might be rightly guided?”
“Yes,” said the doctor, very softly and slowly.
“And that the next day when you went into the operating theatre and stood there with the patient before you, the students and surgeons with your assistants about you ready for the task, you always felt as calm and cool as possible, and that your nerves were like steel?”
“Yes! It is so.”
“Then why should you feel doubt now? I have none.”
The doctor was silent for a few minutes as they rode on through the mysterious-looking night, their shadows bowing and undulating on the sand.
“I suppose it is the same,” he said at last, “with the soldiers going into some engagement. There is the feeling of nervousness which they suffer from till the stern work begins, and then—well, they act as brave men do act.”
“Even if they are generals in the great fight with disease and death,” said Frank gravely. “I wish I could feel as sure of our ultimate success as I do of your being perfectly calm and self-contained in all you do.”