"Never knew you do anything else," Buchanan answered gruffly.
Then there was a short silence. Hard as he was, the man rebelled against the thing he had to say; and Desmond's unconquerable spirit put him in no better humour for his task.
"My dear fellow," he began, "I'm no hand at beating about the bush; I can only tell you straight that for the present you must give up all hope of getting back to duty, light or otherwise. Mackay is not satisfied about that wound in your face. The slug went too close to the eye, and may possibly—have injured the nerve."
Desmond started and clenched his hand.
"Good God, Colonel!" he broke out hoarsely. "D'you mean—blindness?"
The ring of open fear in a brave man's voice is not a pleasant thing to hear. Buchanan felt he had been too blunt, and regretted not having allowed Mackay to speak.
"Don't jump to hasty conclusions, man," he said quickly. "We have to recognise the possibility in order to prevent it,—that's all. Mackay returns with you. He'll get a second opinion, if necessary; and we've signalled the news to Wyndham in full. All you've got to do now is to knock under like a man, and give your eyes every possible chance; even if it means lying in the dark for a week or two; you understand?"
"Yes—I understand."
There was bitterness in the studied resignation of his tone.