“Silence, woman!” he cried harshly; and the great drops of perspiration began to gather on his brow. “Yes,” he continued hoarsely, “I begin to remember clearly now. The brute fell and rolled over me. Here, Neil, you are a surgeon—tell me—not seriously hurt?”
“You are hurt, father, and it is absolutely necessary that you should be quite calm.”
“Calm, sir! How can I be calm? Do you take me for a child? Send for a proper doctor at once—a man who can understand, and who will tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth, father. I repeat—it is absolutely necessary that you should lie still and try to be calm.”
“But—”
He uttered that word angrily, and clutched at the side of the couch to try again and raise himself, but his arm fell nervelessly by his side, and he gave his son a piteous look.
“My back,” he groaned. “No feeling; Neil, my boy, you know and you will not speak. Don’t, don’t, tell me I am to be a cripple.”
“My dear father,” cried Neil huskily, as he grasped his hand, “I dare not tell you that, for I am not sure. I have sent up for Sir Denton, and he will, I know, come by the earliest possible train. I hope that my fears are wrong.”
“Then they are right,” said the sufferer with a groan. “I know now. Great Heavens!”
He closed his eyes, and lay perfectly still, but the dew upon his contracted face told plainly enough of the mental agony he suffered.