"Hurt? Yes," I said, with a wince. "Is it a big cut?" "Yes," he said softly; "a big cut--a bad cut, but it is beautiful, and will soon grow up again." "Are you going to put any of that smarting stuff on?" I asked. "Oh no. It wants nothing but to be left to grow well with bandages round it. These fresh bandages. Young healthy flesh soon heals." "Are you a surgeon?" I asked. "Yes; and learned to be one in London," he continued, with a smile. "But now you must be still and not talk." I was not sorry to be forbidden to speak, for it was an effort, and I lay watching him, feeling very sick and faint, while he dressed my wound; and then I felt nothing till I found myself staring at the grave face of the eastern surgeon, as he lightly passed a moistened finger beneath my nostrils, and then touched the neck of a bottle which he turned upside down, and proceeded to moisten my temples, while a peculiar cool pungent odour filled the tent. "Better?" he said. "Yes," I said dreamily; and then as I realised what had passed--"Did I faint?" He bowed gravely. "It was natural, sahib. I hurt you very greatly; but the wound looks well. Ah, your colour is coming back to your lips." "Thank you," I said feebly. "I am sorry I was so cowardly. Now ask Captain Brace to come." He shook his head. "Well, then, Mr Haynes." He shook his head again. "They are far away," he said. "Then what place is this? a hospital?" He shook his head again. "I am only the doctor," he said, with a smile. "My duty is to dress your wounds, and it is done." "But tell me this--the fight yesterday?" "I cannot," he replied. "There was no fight yesterday." "Nonsense! There was; and I remember now coming off my horse. I thought it was some one else; but I recall it now." "The sahib talks too much," said the grave, patient-looking doctor. "I will hold my tongue directly," I cried; "but tell me this--were you at the fight?" "Oh no; I was far away, and the rajah summoned me here to attend on you." "Rajah? What rajah?" "His highness, my master." "What!" I cried excitedly. "Then I am a prisoner?" "Yes, sahib. You were cut down in the battle a week ago." A low expiration of the breath, which sounded like a sigh, was the only sound I uttered as I lay back, weak, faint, utterly astounded by the news. A prisoner--cut down a week ago. Then the troop; where was the troop? If I was made a prisoner, had the guns been taken? A cold chill of despair ran through me as those crushing thoughts occurred, and in imagination I saw our men surrounded and slaughtered, perhaps mutilated, the guns taken, and the fight of that day a tremendous victory for the enemy. But after a time a better way of thinking came over me when I was alone; for, after a grave smile, the doctor had bowed and left the tent.