Judging from appearances it had not, for Richard Linnell lay upon the sand with his eyes half closed, and the blood trickling from a wound over the right temple, just where the hair began to grow.
“Is he much hurt?” whispered Sir Harry.
“Don’t know yet,” said the doctor sharply, as he examined the fallen man. “Not Rockley’s fault if he is not.”
“He’s a perfect devil,” muttered Sir Harry, as, looking very white, he gazed from one to the other, while the Major slowly walked down towards the sea and back.
“Well?” said Colonel Mellersh, as the doctor ceased his examination.
“Had my man better be off at once?” said Sir Harry. “Give him a chance to get away.”
“If you do get him away, Sir Harry Payne, let me know where he is gone. I may have a few words to say to Major Rockley.”
“I can’t tell what may supervene. There may be concussion of the brain,” said the surgeon. “Yes, he is coming to now. The bullet has only scored his head. It was a marvellous escape.”
“Blast!” muttered Major Rockley, as the news was conveyed to him. “Here, let’s be off back, I want my breakfast. Curse him, I’ve not done with him yet, Payne. There are other ways to touch the heart of a greenhorn like that, than with bullets. I’d got him dead as a hammer. My arm felt like steel, and my shot would have had him right in the chest if that piece of chalk had not struck me and jerked my arm. Come along.”
“Hadn’t I better go and see if I can be of any help?”