"Yes; I will stay with him," she replied, though she felt a sudden doubt how she should arrange to do so.
The surgeon gave a few instructions and passed on—it was a busy night for him and all his brethren, and they could not linger over one man. Lucia still sat by the side of Prescott, applying cooling bandages, according to the surgeon's instructions, and no one sought to interfere with her.
The house, which contained so many wounded, was singularly quiet. Hardly one of them groaned. There was merely the sound of feet moving softly. Two or three lights burned very low. Outside was the same silence and darkness. Men came in or went away and the others took no notice.
A man entered presently, a slender man, of no particular presence, with veiled eyes, it seemed to Lucia, and she observed that his coming created a faint rustle of interest, something that had not happened with any other. He was not in uniform, and his first glance was for Helen Harley. Then he came toward Lucia and, bending down, looked keenly at the face of her patient.
"It is Captain Prescott," he said. "I am sorry. Is he badly hurt?"
"No," she replied; "he is suffering chiefly from concussion, the surgeon says, and will be well again in two or three weeks."
"With good nursing?"
"Yes, with good nursing." She glaced up in a little surprise.
Revelation, comprehension, resolve, shot over James Sefton's face. He was genuinely pleased, and as he glanced at Lucia Catherwood again her answering gaze was full of understanding.
"Your name is Lucia Catherwood," he said.