New dismay of the unprofessionals!
"Now, Gentlemen, if you will lend me your flasks," said Mr. Islip, mighty calmly.
Griffith and Neville were instantly at his side, each with a flask.
The surgeon administered snow and brandy. Kate sipped these, and gulped down her sobs, and at last cried composedly.
But when it came to sipping brandied snow and crying comfortably, Major Rickards's anxiety gave place to curiosity. Without taking his eye off her, he beckoned Mr. Hammersley apart, and whispered,—
"Who the Deuse is it?"
"Don't you know?" whispered the other in return. "Why, Mistress Peyton herself."
"What! the girl it is all about? Well, I never heard of such a thing: the causa belli to come galloping and swooning on the field of battle, and so stop the fighting! What will our ladies do next? By Heaven! she is worth fighting for, though. Which is the happy man, I wonder? She doesn't look at either of them."
"Ah!" said the gentleman, "that is more than I know, more than Neville knows, more than anybody knows."
"Bet you a guinea she knows,—and lets it out before she leaves the field," said Major Rickards.