“It is what one would have expected. A brave soldier!” he said.
Appleby said nothing, but looked round for Tony, and felt suddenly chilly when he did not see him. Then with horrible misgivings he turned towards a man who lay partly upon a fallen cazador with a rifle beside him. Just then the man lifted his head, and it was with a gasp he recognized the drawn, white face as Tony Palliser’s.
“Tony, you’re not hurt?” he said, with hoarse anxiety.
Tony smiled wryly. “I think I am,” he said. “This fellow got his bayonet into me, and I have a notion that I’m bleeding internally. I suppose there is a doctor in Santa Marta.”
Appleby turned and seized Maccario by the shoulder. The latter, leaning over the balustrade, called out sharply, and in a moment or two three or four of the Sin Verguenza came up and lifted Tony. As they moved away with him Maccario stooped and laid Morales’ kepi over his face. Then he touched Appleby gently.
“I have seen a good many wounds, and I think the Señor Palliser will not fight again,” he said.
[XXXI — STRUCK OFF THE ROLL]
IT was with difficulty a handful of the Sin Verguenza cleared a way for Tony’s bearers through the clamorous mob below, and an hour had passed when Appleby, who had seen his comrade safely bestowed there, came out, grave in face, from the Spanish banker’s house. The doctor Maccario sent had, it was evident, no great hope of his patient’s recovery, though he insisted that he should be left in quietness.
A messenger from Maccario was waiting when Appleby reached the patio, and it was a relief to find that he had in the meanwhile work to do. Still, he stood almost a minute blinking about him with eyes that were dazzled by the change from the dimness of the hot room behind the closed lattices where Tony lay. The patio was flooded with glaring sunlight, and a confused din rose from every corner of Santa Marta. The hot walls flung back the tramp of feet and the exultant vivas of the mob, while from the tall church towers the clash of jangling bells rang across the town drowning the occasional crackle of riflery, for it was evident that scattered handfuls of the cazadores were fighting still.
Then the brown-faced man beside him made a little gesture of impatience when there was a crash of firing louder than the rest.