He nodded and went out.
“Have breakfast?” called out Moore from the door.
“I shall get some at the Fort, thanks. They won't take any hurt from me there,” he said, smiling his cynical smile.
Moore opened his eyes in surprise.
“What's that for?” he asked me.
“Well, he is rather cut up, and you rather rubbed it into him, you know,” I said, for I thought Moore a little hard.
“Did I say anything untrue?”
“Well, not untrue, perhaps; but truth is like medicine—not always good to take.” At which Moore was silent till his patient needed him again.
It was a weary day. The intense pain from the wound, and the high fever from the poison in his blood kept the poor fellow in delirium till evening, when The Duke rode up with the Fort doctor. Jingo appeared as nearly played out as a horse of his spirit ever allowed himself to become.
“Seventy miles,” said The Duke, swinging himself off the saddle. “The doctor was ten miles out. How is he?”