"No, my lord," said Dr. Davy, who had been examining the nature of the injury she had received, and who now dismounted to assist the nobleman into his carriage. "The wound is not a dangerous one. It was aimed at the lady's heart, but at the moment the ruffian fired, she providentially put up her arm to raise her veil, which has received the ball of the assassin. The sooner we can convey her home the better."
Gerard's handkerchief had formed a temporary bandage to stop the effusion of blood, and as he held his fair young wife in his arms his face was as pale and rigid as her own. "How quickly," he thought, "does sorrow tread in the footsteps of joy. How little of real happiness can be expected in a world on which rests the curse of sin, the shadows of the grave."
Dorothy did not recover from her fainting fit until after they reached the Hall, and she had been conveyed to bed. Then followed the painful operation of extracting the ball from her right arm, where it was lodged about four inches above the elbow, and dressing and bandaging the wound, which Dr. Davy assured the anxious father and husband, would only prove a temporary inconvenience of a few weeks at the farthest.
Dorothy bore the operation without a murmur, placing her left hand in that of her husband, and leaning her head upon his breast. When it was over she was gently laid back upon her pillow, and given a composing draught to induce sleep.
"Gerard," she whispered, "did you see that unhappy man?"
"No, my love."
"It was Gilbert Rushmere. Has he escaped?"
"From the punishment due to his crime? Yes."
"Thank God! I would not have him suffer death on my account. Oh, Gerard, if you had seen his eyes—the look he gave, when he fired. It was not Gilbert Rushmere but some demon in his shape."
"Hush, my precious wife. You must not talk and distress yourself. Your wound, though not dangerous, may be rendered so, by want of rest and excitement." But Dorothy was too much agitated to sleep.