CHAPTER LII. — IN WHICH TALBOT TAKES OFF HER DISGUISE.
Brooke and Talbot were now alone; for, though there were one or two wounded in the room, yet these were too much taken up with their own pains to think of anything else.
Brooke's wound, after all, turned out to be but slight. The bullet had grazed his skull, making a furrow through the scalp of no greater depth than the skin, and carrying away a pathway of hair. The sudden and sharp force of such a blow had been sufficient to fell him to the floor and leave him senseless; but, upon reviving, it did not take a very long time for him to regain his strength and the full use of his faculties. The traces of the blow were soon effaced, and Brooke at last showed himself to be very little the worse for his adventure. His face was marked here and there by spots from the powder; but the blood-stains were quickly washed away, and his head was bound up in a narrow bandage made of Talbot's handkerchief. His hat, which had fallen off during his struggles with the soldiers, was now recovered, and as it was of soft stuff he was able to wear it.
"With this," said he, "Brooke is himself again."
Talbot now proceeded to wash the bloodstains from her own face.
"That looks better," said Brooke. "Streaks of blood did not improve your personal appearance."
He tried to speak in his usual careless tone, but his voice was tremulous and agitated.
"Your blood, Brooke," said Talbot, in a faltering voice—"your blood—poured out—for me!"