rgeons.

CHAPTER XXX.

Doctor Livingstone's concern was personal, that was plain in the way he
stood looking at the floor of the corridor with his hands in his
pockets, before Hilda reached him. Regret was written all over the lines
of his pausing figure, with the compressed irritation which saved that
feeling, in the Englishman's way, from being too obvious.

"This is a bad business, Miss Howe."

"I've just come over--I haven't heard. Who is it?"

"It's my cousin, poor chap--Arnold, the padre. He's been badly knifed in
the bazaar."

The news passed over her and left her looking with a curious face at
chance. It was lifted a little, with composed lips, and eyes which
refused to be taken by surprise. There was inquiry in them, also a
defence, a retreat. Chance looking back saw an invincible silent
readiness and a pallor which might be that of any woman. But the doctor
was also looking, so she said, "That is very sad," and moved near enough
to the wall to put her hand against it. She was not faint, but the wall
was a fact on which one could, for the moment, rely.

"They've got the man--one of those Cabuli moneylenders. The police had
no trouble with him. He said it was the order of Allah--the brute. Stray
case of fanaticism, I suppose. It seems Arnold was walking along as
usual, without a notion, and the fellow sprang on him and in two seconds
the thing was done. Hadn't a chance, poor beggar."

"Where is it?"

"Root of the left lung. About five inches deep. The artery pretty well
cut through, I fancy."

"Then----"

"Oh no--we can't do anything. The haemorrhage must be tremendous. But he
may live through the night. Are you going to Sister Margaret?"

His nod took it for granted and he went on. Hilda walked slowly forward,
her head bent, with absorbed, uncertain steps. A bar of evening sunlight
came before her, she looked up and stepped outside the open door. She
was handling this thing that had happened, taking possession of it. It
lay in her mind in the midst of a suddenly stricken and tenderly
saddened consciousness. It lay there passively; it did not rise and
grapple with her, it was a thing that had happened--in Bura Bazaar. The
pity of it assailed her. Tears came into her eyes, and an infinite
grieved solicitude gathered about her heart. "So?" she said to herself,
thinking that he was young and loved his work, and that now his hand
would be stayed from the use it had found. One of the ugly outra