"I'll tell you more about it tomorrow, Mark."
Dr. Davenal's tone was so very grave that Mark Cray stared. He thought--Mark Cray almost thought that there was a shade of reproof in it, meant for him.
"I am sure she has no serious hurt," he exclaimed.
"Well, Mark, I can say nothing positively yet. In the state she is, and in this place, it is not easy to ascertain: but I fear she has."
"My goodness!" cried Mark, conscious that he was but the veriest tyro beside that man of skill, of unerring practice, Richard Davenal, and feeling very little at the moment. "What is the hurt, sir?" he asked in a loud tone.
"Hold your tongue about it," said the doctor. "Time enough to proclaim it abroad when the fact has been ascertained that there is one."
Oswald Cray came up, having distinguished the doctor in the moonlight.
"I wish you'd come and look at a poor fellow, Dr. Davenal, who wants a word of cheering. A word of such from you, you know sends the spirits up. You should have seen the man's face lighten when I said you were here."
"Who is it?" asked the doctor, turning off with alacrity.
"Poor Bigg the fireman. You know him, I daresay. He is badly scalded and bruised."