“I may stay, Doctor Heston,” she said. “I may be of use.”
“No words now,” he said, sharply. “By-and-by you will be invaluable. Well there, stay.”
He had thrown off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as he spoke, and as Lydia bent her head and stood waiting, Katrine left the room. Then the deft-handed medico was busy with his examination.
“Head literally scored with a bullet,” he said.
“Not a cut?” whispered Mr Girtle, pointing to the sword.
“Bless me, no. Scored by a bullet. An inch lower—hallo! What have we here?”
He took out a knife and cut through the clothes, where he could not draw them away from where the blood had oozed out just below the left shoulder.
“Hah! Yes! Bullet. Entered here; passed out. No! Here it is. Just below the skin.”
He had raised the sufferer, and found that the bullet had passed nearly through, and was visible so near the surface that a slight cut would have given it exit.
“Nothing vital touched, I think,” said the doctor, busying himself about the wound in the shoulder.