Grey knelt down at her side as Hilton drew back, wrinkling his brow, half with vexation, half with contempt, as he looked now at the Resident.
Mr Harley returned the glance, and they both stood looking on, wanting to leave but hardly liking to stir, as poor little Mrs Bolter sobbed forth her trouble, with her head buried now in Grey Stuart’s breast.
“We cannot wait longer,” said the Resident at last; “we must go and risk it. If we have any casualties, we must trust to our own surgical knowledge, and do the best we can.”
“Yes,” said Hilton; “every minute is precious; but I am afraid that we are going to a war of words, and not to a war of weapons. Let us go. Perhaps Mrs Bolter will beg of the doctor to come after us in one of the small boats if we miss him on our way up.”
“Stop a minute,” said Mrs Bolter, recovering herself by an effort, and standing up, red of eye and cheek. “He will not come back here while you are gone, and I will hesitate no longer. I shall go with you!”
“Go with us?” cried the Resident and Hilton in a breath.
“Yes,” said the little woman, decidedly. “I shall go!”
“But it is impossible!” cried the Resident. “There may be fighting!”
“Then you would want help. I do know a little surgery, and more nursing; so I could be of great service.”
“But, my dear Mrs Bolter!” cried Hilton.