The Duke was already kneeling at Simon’s side. “Where did you find him?” he murmured, as he helped Rex to pull off Simon’s blood-soaked clothes.
“Way outside the garden gate. I allow he crawled that far after he’d been shot.”
“He fainted, I expect, from loss of blood,” De Richleau replied, as with his long, slender fingers he carefully drew the shirt away from the wound. “It is this one place only, I think,” he added.
“Well, that doesn’t look any too good.” Rex bent over, and examined the ugly hole in Simon’s thigh, from which blood was welling.
Marie Lou joined them with a bowl of water. “Poor boy,” she sighed. “He is so white and still — almost one would think him dead.”
“I fear he will be very much alive in a moment,” said the Duke, taking out his penknife, and holding it in the flame of the lamp.
“What are you about to do?” asked Marie Lou, who had started to bathe the wound gently.
“Probe for the bullet — remove it if I can. The pain will bring him round, I’m afraid, but it must be done. He will thank me for it if we ever get out of this country alive. Rex, take this cloth — hold it over his mouth to stifle his cries. Mademoiselle, perhaps you would prefer to turn your back on this rough surgery?”
She shrugged. “It is not pleasant, but it is necessary. What can I do to help?”
“My rucksack is in the loft — in it there is a little bottle of iodine — if you could fetch me that.” The Duke knelt down again as he spoke.