“Not now, doctor, not now!” cried Zabra, hastily, and in evident confusion, as Tourniquet was proceeding to examine the state of the wound.
“But, my dear young friend,” observed the surgeon, kindly, “unless you let me take off part of your dress it is impossible that I can discover the injury you have received, don’t you see.”
“Here! I will remove his tunic,” said Oriel, eagerly coming forward to assist the doctor.
“Oh no, no, no!” hastily exclaimed Zabra, retreating in alarm from the proffered assistance. “I shall be better presently—that is—I am not much hurt. It is nothing. It will get well without assistance.”
“You must have your wound dressed, Zabra!” said Oriel Porphyry, surprised that his young friend should exhibit such a disinclination to intrust himself to the surgeon’s treatment. “I dare say it will give you but little pain, and will soon be over.”
“I can say nothing on the subject till I have seen the wound, don’t you see,” remarked the surgeon, in a slight degree offended at the extraordinary want of confidence in his surgical skill evinced by his patient.
“I am very faint,” cried Zabra, looking bewildered around him, as he leaned for support upon Master Porphyry—“very faint. I think I had better descend to my berth, where the doctor can attend me.”
“Very well,” replied Oriel: “only you must let me assist you.”
“Oh no, no!” exclaimed his young associate, eagerly. “Not now, Oriel. The doctor’s arm will be all the assistance I shall require. You can come to me afterwards.”
“You are a strange creature,” observed the merchant’s son. “But let it be as you wish.”