“Poor old Anstruther has got himself blown up instead of the fort,” returned Dick. “Take care of that corner, Woodworth.”
“What is the matter with him? Is he badly hurt?” asked Mabel hoarsely.
“Can’t say yet. On second thoughts, Colonel, I’ll take Winlock, if you can spare him. He knows the country round here so much better than Beltring.”
“Dick, are you absolutely heartless?” Mabel grasped her brother’s arm, and shook him. “Is he dying?”
“How can I tell? He was just alive when we found him.”
“I must be with him. I will nurse him,” she managed to say.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. It’s no sight for you, and we don’t want fainting and hysterics. For Heaven’s sake, Mabel, don’t make a scene!” he added, in a whisper of angry disgust. “It’s not as if he was anything to you.”
“I have a right——” she began with difficulty.
“Keep her away, Burgrave,” said Dick curtly, turning his head for a moment, and the Commissioner drew her hand within his arm, and led her in silence to the other side of the courtyard. In the tumult of her anger and mortification, she struggled furiously at first, but he declined to release her, and presently she found herself deposited in a chair, with Mr Burgrave standing over her like a jailer. Between her sobs she could hear him talking, apparently with the charitable intention of at once comforting her for her exclusion and assuring her that the cause of her emotion remained unsuspected.
“Anxious to be of use—highly delicate nervous organisation—might distract the doctor’s attention at a critical moment—your brother meant kindly—” were some of the scraps that reached her ears.