“Caramba! Somebody must have told you.”
“You might have made a worse guess, Señor Ramon. Will you please tell Mr. Fortescue that I thank him with all my heart for his great kindness, and that I will not trespass on it more than I can possibly help. As soon as I can be moved I shall go to my own place.”
“That will not be for a long time, and I do not think the Señor Coronel would like—But when he returns he will see you, and then you can tell him yourself.”
“He is away from home, then?”
“The Señor Coronel has gone to London. He will be back to-morrow.”
“Well, if I cannot thank him to-day, I can thank you. You are my nurse, are you not?”
“A little—Geist and I, and Mees Tomleenson, we relieve each other. But those two don’t know much about wounds.”
“And you do, I suppose?”
“Hijo de Dios! Do I know much about wounds? I have nursed men who have been cut to pieces. I have been cut to pieces myself. Look!”
And with that Ramon pointed to his neck, which was seamed all the way down with a tremendous scar; then to his left hand, which was minus two fingers; next to one of his arms, which appeared to have been plowed from wrist to elbow with a bullet; and lastly to his head, which was almost covered with cicatrices, great and small.