“Her brother’s danger would induce her, one would imagine.”
“No doubt, madam,” continued the doctor, laconically, bowing low, and giving room to the ladies to pass. The words and the manner were not lost on the younger sister, in whose presence the name of Dunwoodie was never mentioned unheeded.
“Sir,” cried Dr. Sitgreaves, on entering the parlor, addressing himself to the only coat of scarlet in the room, “I am advised you are in want of my aid. God send ’tis not Captain Lawton with whom you came in contact, in which case I may be too late.”
“There must be some mistake, sir,” said Wellmere, haughtily. “It was a surgeon that Major Dunwoodie was to send me, and not an old woman.”
“’Tis Dr. Sitgreaves,” said Henry Wharton, quickly, though with difficulty suppressing a laugh. “The multitude of his engagements, to-day, has prevented his usual attention to his attire.”
“Your pardon, sir,” added Wellmere, very ungraciously proceeding to lay aside his coat, and exhibit what he called a wounded arm.
“If, sir,” said the surgeon dryly, “the degrees of Edinburgh—walking your London hospitals—amputating some hundreds of limbs—operating on the human frame in every shape that is warranted by the lights of science, a clear conscience, and the commission of the Continental Congress, can make a surgeon, I am one.”
“Your pardon, sir,” repeated the colonel stiffly. “Captain Wharton has accounted for my error.”
“For which I thank Captain Wharton,” said the surgeon, proceeding coolly to arrange his amputating instruments, with a formality that made the colonel’s blood run cold. “Where are you hurt, sir? What! is it then this scratch in your shoulder? In what manner might you have received this wound, sir?”
“From the sword of a rebel dragoon,” said the colonel, with emphasis.