By now a dozen lanterns or more lit up the scene. The doctor laid his ear against Wargrave's chest and held a polished cigarette case to his lips. Then he pulled back the shirt to examine his injuries.
"Oh, is he dead? Is he dead?" cried a trembling voice.
The doctor, looking up angrily, found Miss Benson and Mrs. Dermot standing over him. The sepoys had silently made way for them.
"You shouldn't be here, ladies," he said with justifiable annoyance. "This is no place for you. No; he's not dead. And I hope and think that he won't die."
"Oh, thank God!" cried the two women.
The sepoys crowding round and hanging on the doctor's verdict could not understand the words but saw the look of joyous relief on their faces and guessed the truth. A wild, confused cheer went up to the stars.
"Mr. Macdonald," said Mrs. Dermot bending over him again. "Will you bring him to my house? There is no accommodation for him in your little hospital, you know; and he'd have no one to look after him in the Mess. I can nurse him."
The doctor straightened himself on his knee and looked down at the unconscious man.
"Yes, Mrs. Dermot, it's a good idea," he replied. "There is nowhere else where he'd get any attention. My hands are full with Major Hunt. He's taken a turn for the worse. His temperature went up dangerously high to-night; and he was almost delirious."
He stood up.