“Better, perhaps, than any one here,” she replied. “Go to your duties; but come by-and-by to see how the poor fellow is. It will cheer him.”
Roy could not refuse to obey the order, and hurried back to meet Ben on the way to the sufferer’s side.
“Not go in?” said the sergeant. “Her ladyship says so? Oh, very well—then of course it is all right.”
“But I feel so anxious,” said Roy; “my mother is not a chirurgeon.”
“More aren’t we, Master Roy; but she’s what’s just as good—a splendid nurse. So’s old Grey’s wife; so Sam Donny’s in clover. I was being a bit anxious about him, for fear Master Pawson was doing the doctoring, and I’d rather trust myself.”
“But the wound—the terrible wound?” cried Roy.
“Tchah! Nothing terrible about that, captain. Just a clean sword-cut. You’ve cut your finger many a time, haven’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Well, did you want a doctor? No; you had it tied up tightly, and left it alone. Then it grew together again!”
“Yes, yes, yes,” cried Roy, impatiently. “But this was a terrible slash on the poor fellow’s thigh. You saw how horribly it bled.”