At dawn Sir John had come below, seeking news of his wounded friend. He
found the surgeon kneeling over Lionel.
As he entered, Master Tobias turned aside, rinsed his hands in a metal
basin placed upon the floor, and rose wiping them on a napkin.
"I can do no more, Sir John," he muttered in a desponding voice. "He is
sped."
"Dead, d'ye mean?" cried Sir John, a catch in his voice.
The surgeon tossed aside the napkin, and slowly drew down the upturned
sleeves of his black doublet. "All but dead," he answered. "The wonder
is that any spark of life should still linger in a body with that hole in
it. He is bleeding inwardly, and his pulse is steadily weakening. It
must continue so until imperceptibly he passes away. You may count him
dead already, Sir John." He paused. "A merciful, painless end," he
added, and sighed perfunctorily, his pale shaven face decently grave, for
all that such scenes as these were commonplaces in his life. "Of the
other four," he continued, "Blair is dead; the other three should all
recover."
But Sir John gave little heed to the matter of those others. His grief
and dismay at this quenching of all hope for his friend precluded any
other consideration at the moment.
"And he will not even recover consciousness?" he asked insisting,
although already he had been answered.
"As I have said, you may count him dead already, Sir John. My skill can
do nothing for him.
Pages:
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433