eful
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 hoarse 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; passed out. No! Here it is. Just
below the skin."

He had raised the sufferer, and found that the bullet had passed 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."

The doctor chatted away, quickly, but his hands kept time with his
voice. He had laid down a small case of instruments with a roll of
linen, and turning from the arm once more, he rapidly clipped away the
hair, and dressed the wound in the head, a wound so horrible that Artis
shuddered, turned to the brandy decanter that the old butler stood
holding with a helpless, dazed look, and poured out a good dram, while
Lydia knelt there, very pale, but calmly holding scissors, lint or
strapping, to hand as they were required.

"Now for the bullet," said the doctor in a cheerful, airy way. "Mr
Artis, just lend a hand here. Or, no; you look upset. Put down that
decanter, butler! This isn't a dinner-party. That's right. Now kneel
down here."