“But ought it to bleed, father?” asked Chris.
“No, no. The injury is only to the skin. There’s very little harm done.”
The third wound was far worse, and to get out the arrowhead the doctor had to cut deeply, with the result that the equine patient stamped angrily and whinnied and shook his head. But he stood firm, making no attempt to kick or bite, and as soon as the wound was being bathed, stood blinking and evidently enjoying having its muzzle smoothed.
Then came the long cut or tear on the poor brute’s flank, an injury so tender that he winced and shivered at the slightest touch. But there was no cutting here, nothing but bathing and cleansing the place thoroughly, before the skin was drawn together by means of pins passed through the edges and waxed silk wound round and round from head to point of the little pins. The skin of the other injuries was closed in the same way, and then the doctor made a fresh examination of the poor animal’s sprain.
“I can do nothing here,” he said. “Nature will put that right. There, Chris, lead him back to the others, and let him graze and forget his troubles if he can.”
No leading was required, the pony following his master like a dog back to the pasture, where he began grazing for a few moments, before turning up his head to whinny loudly, and then lie down in the thick grass, stretching out legs and head, extended upon the flank.
“Why, Chris,” cried Ned, “he’s fainting!”
“Or something worse,” cried Chris anxiously, as he sank stiffly upon his knees behind the mustang’s head and laid his hand upon the neck.
“No, he’s all right,” cried Ned eagerly, for the pony on feeling the touch of his master’s hand and hearing his voice, raised his muzzle, looked at him, and let it sink down again.
“Poor old fellow,” said Chris softly, and he stayed there kneeling and talking quietly to the injured animal, till a shout from the terrace recalled them back.