He shook himself like a young lion, free of dust, and wiped away the blood that was trickling from a small scar in his cheek. His wish that the comrade he had rescued should be attended to at once was gratified as quickly as possible, and as the surgeon bared the terrible wounds of the insensible mangled human creature before him he shook his head.
“No hope!” he said,—“it’s no use operating here! It would only prolong the poor fellow’s agony. He’s coming to, though. Do you think he knows you?”
“Well, my name’s McDonald,” said the young officer,—“Alister McDonald. My father’s in the Gordon Highlanders. And this chap called me Alister. Let me have a look at him.” He came up to the side of the wounded soldier, who was gradually returning to consciousness with heavy shuddering breaths of pain,—and looked long and earnestly in his face. Then he gave a sharp exclamation.
“By Jove! It’s Boy!”
Violet Morrison heard the cry, and turned swiftly.
“Boy!” she exclaimed, and came forward, her lips apart, her whole frame trembling. Alister McDonald looked at her in surprise and admiration.
“Do you know him?” he said. “I’ve never seen him since he was a little chap, but I remember his face quite well. I don’t know how he comes to be a private, though. I think it must be the same fellow. His name is Robert D’Arcy-Muir——”
But Violet, bending down over the poor shattered frame of the dying man, quickly recognized, through the trickling blood and clammy dews of fever heat, the delicate refined features and clustering fair locks which had once been the fond admiration of one of the sweetest women in the world, and, despite all her efforts at self-control, a low sob escaped her.
“Oh my darling Miss Letty!” she whispered—“Oh Boy!”
Young Alister McDonald heard her.