Part 24 (1/2)

For her answer, Lydia took water from the wash-stand, and began to bathe the blood-smeared face, kneeling down by Capel's side.

Just then Preenham entered with decanter and gla.s.s, the former clattering against the latter, as he poured out some of the contents.

Holding a little of the brandy to Capel's clenched teeth, Mr Girtle managed to trickle through a few drops at a time, while Lydia continued the bathing, and Katrine stood, like some beautiful statue, gazing down at them with wrinkled brow and clasped hands.

By this time, the knowledge that something was wrong had reached the women-servants, and they had both come to the door.

”No, no; keep them away, Preenham,” said Mr Girtle, in answer to offers of a.s.sistance. ”You go down, too, and be at the door, ready to let the doctor in.”

”Yes, sir, I will,” said the old butler, piteously; ”but my young master--will he live?”

”Please G.o.d!” said the lawyer simply.

”But he is not dead, sir?”

”There is your answer, man,” said Mr Girtle, for just then Capel uttered a low moan.

The old butler bent down on one knee, and Lydia darted at him a grateful look, as she saw him lift and press one cold hand, and then, laying it down, he rose, and went out of the room on tiptoe, raising his hands and his face towards Heaven.

”Was he stabbed--with that sword?” said Lydia, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.

”No, I think not. The doctor must soon be here,” was the reply.

In fact, five minutes later there was a quick knock at the door, and Dr Heston hurried in, followed by Artis.

”Give me the room,” he said quickly. ”Ladies, please go.”

Katrine turned slowly, and glanced at Lydia.

”I may stay, Doctor Heston,” she said. ”I may be of use.”

”No words now,” he said, sharply. ”By-and-by you will be invaluable.

Well there, stay.”

He had thrown off his coat and rolled up his sleeves as he spoke, and as Lydia bent her head and stood waiting, Katrine left the room. Then the deft-handed medico was busy with his examination.

”Head literally scored with a bullet,” he said.

”Not a cut?” whispered Mr Girtle, pointing to the sword.

”Bless me, no. Scored by a bullet. An inch lower--hallo! What have we here?”

He took out a knife and cut through the clothes, where he could not draw them away from where the blood had oozed out just below the left shoulder.

”Hah! Yes! Bullet. Entered here; pa.s.sed out. No! Here it is. Just below the skin.”

He had raised the sufferer, and found that the bullet had pa.s.sed nearly through, and was visible so near the surface that a slight cut would have given it exit.

”Nothing vital touched, I think,” said the doctor, busying himself about the wound in the shoulder.

”Ah! That's right, madam. Nothing like a woman's hand, after all, about a sick man. Why, this must have happened hours ago.”