“Yes,—with pain.”
“Then the joint is safe. I have known fellows brevetted for things no worse.”
“But my puzzle is, why what is only a flesh-wound should have made me drop as if I were dead. I cannot understand it.”
“The doctors call it ’shock,’” said his host. “At times it affects the head, and a man hit in the foot or arm goes crazy for a time, or else it stops the heart, and he faints.”
“That was it, I suppose.”
As they talked Lyndsay put on a wet compress, and, with the skill learned long since, where bullets were many and bigger, he made his patient reasonably comfortable, and left him at last under Mrs. Lyndsay’s despotic care.
In the mean time, Anne, anxious to know more, had looked for Jack. At ease concerning Carington, he was off somewhere, busy about the preservation of his precious bearskin, and Rose, too, had disappeared. Anne felt that she must wait, and, as usual, went to her room, to rest a little before their retarded dinner. She opened the door, and instantly went in and shut it. Rose was lying on the bed, trying hard to suppress her sobs, knowing well that she would be but too easily heard.
“Dear child, what is it?” said Anne.
“I don’t know. Oh, do, please, let me alone!”
“But I must know. It is so unlike you. Mr. Carington is in no danger.”