“It will pass, sir,” she answered bravely. “It is foolish of me, and you will think me a great coward, Mr. Cassilis, but I would not cause unnecessary alarm; and if—if I may rest here for a moment, until this faintness is passed——”
As she spoke she moved somewhat unsteadily across the floor and sank again into the chair with a long-drawn, shuddering sigh she strove in vain to suppress.
I stood gazing at her, torn by conflicting emotions. It was growing late and I had already broken my word to the sergeant; yet, almost as if she divined my thoughts, she raised her head.
“Are you still there, sir?” she said in a low voice, with a quiver as of pain in it. “Ah, let me beg of you to leave me!” And she leaned her head upon her hand so that I could no longer see her face—to hide her tears, I fancied.
I flung my cloak and hat from me and returned slowly to her side. She was a woman and in pain. I could do no less.
“Since that you do not desire me to call your women, madam,” I said hesitatingly, “if you would permit me to look at your wrist myself. I am possessed of some slight knowledge of surgery,” I continued, growing bolder at her silence—“a knowledge acquired by many years’ familiarity with wounds and sickness in foreign lands.”
She did not make any reply to this, nor even a gesture of dissent. I waited for a few moments in silence.
“May I, madam?” I said at length, in a voice I strove to render steady.
“If you would be so good, sir,” she murmured.
With my heart beating furiously, I sank upon one knee beside her and gently took her white hand in both my own strong brown ones. Gently as I raised it, however, at my touch I saw a tremor of pain pass through her.