"Where?" said the bride.
"In the arm."
Indeed, the left sleeve of Farallone's shirt was glittering with blood.
"I will bandage it for you," she said, "if you will tell me how."
Farallone ripped open the sleeve of his shirt.
"What shall I bandage it with?" asked the bride.
"Anything," said Farallone.
The bride turned her back on us, stooped, and we heard a sound of tearing. When she had bandaged Farallone's wound (it was in the flesh and the bullet had been extracted by its own impetus) she looked him gravely in the face.
"What's the use of goading him?" she said gently.