“I am a doctor,” he said; “perhaps I can be of some assistance.”
He felt the boy’s pulse, touched his cheek, and listened to his breathing.
“It is only a fainting spell,” he said; “he will come out of it in a minute. Brought on by excitement and exhaustion, I presume. I don’t wonder at it if the boy’s story of his journey through the storm is true.”
He was chafing Dannie’s hands as he spoke, loosening the neckband of his shirt, and touching his cheek to note the returning circulation.
“Whatever he said is true,” declared Abner Pickett; “the boy never told a lie in his life.”
Gabriel, who had followed the party to the jury room, had, with a quick instinct not unusual for him, constituted himself a doorkeeper, and was holding back the curious and inquiring crowd.
“Jest a little faintin’ spell,” he explained. “Ain’t used to court, you know, an’ the judge an’ the lawyers an’ all, they kind o’ scairt ’im. He’ll be all right in a minute or two—much obleeged to ye.”
Charlie Pickett, leaning over the prostrate body of his son, touched his father’s arm.
“Father,” he said, “I want to speak to you for a moment. Dannie is safe in the doctor’s hands. Will you come out with me?”
And Abner Pickett looked up at him coldly and replied:—