"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." He softly raised Capel, and placed him in a convenient position before turning to Lydia. "Really, I think you would prefer to go now?" The girl's lips seemed to tighten and she shook her head. "As you please;" said the doctor testily. "I have no time to waste. A little back, Mr Girtle; I want all the light I can have. Yes, that's plain enough," he muttered, as with one hand resting on the injured man's shoulder where the bullet made quite a little lump, he stretched out the other, and from where it nestled in the case, fitted amongst so much purple velvet, he took out a small knife. There was a pleasant look of satisfaction in the doctor's face, as he took out the knife, but the next moment he turned with an angry flash upon Lydia. It was the natural instinctive act of one who loves seeking to protect the object loved. For as Dr Heston took the knife in his hand, Lydia's eyes dilated, and she leaned forward, caught the doctor's arm, and gazed at the keen little blade with dilated eyes. "My dear young lady, are you mad?" cried the doctor, testily. She raised her eyes to his in a look so full of appeal, that he could read it as easily as if she had given it with the interpretation of words. He was not accustomed to argue in a case like this, but the girl's loving attempt to protect the insensible man, touched him to the heart; and dropping his sharp, imperious manner, he said gently: