“Ay!” cried the founder. “Quick, Gil, you are a good chirurgeon;” and the new-comer—to wit, Mace’s companion on the Pool—strode in, went down on one knee, and without a word dipped a portion of the linen in the cold water, removed the blood, and with the skill of an adept made a couple of pads, and cleverly bound up the wound.
“Give him a little of the strong waters,” he cried, and the founder hurriedly fetched a flask and held a glass to the wounded man’s lips before the new-comer said briefly, “How was it?”
“Oh, he angered and drew on me, and we had a few passes,” cried the founder. “My own fault, too.”
“It is a mere nothing,” said the other. “Why Mace, my child, don’t look so white. He is a soldier evidently, and he’ll bear it like a man.”
“Am I white, Gil?” said the girl, looking up and smiling sadly, as she thought of how her life seemed cast among warlike weapons and their works. “I am not frightened, only troubled. Father, dear, this is so sad.”
“It is, it is, my child. I’d have given half I have sooner than it should have happened. Hush, he’s coming to.”
For just then the injured man sighed, opened his eyes wonderingly, gazed upwards to see who supported him, and lowered his lids again, saying softly—
“The face of an angel: is this Heaven?”
“Oh, no,” cried the amateur surgeon, frowning slightly as he saw Mace colour, “and if you were here sometimes, when friend Cobbe is casting cannon, you’d think it was the other place. Come, sir, let me help you up. It is a mere flesh wound, and will only smart.”
“Thank you, I can rise,” said Sir Mark, reddening, as he made an effort and rose without assistance; but the room seemed to swim round, and he staggered and would have fallen, had not his surgeon caught him by the uninjured arm, and helped him to a seat, letting him gently down into a half-reclining position.