Rose was just tearing open his collar and jacket. Dard and Jacintha had
run from the kitchen at the screams. Camille lay on his back, white and
motionless.
The doctor was the first to come up. "Who! what is this? I seem to know
his face." Then shaking his head, "Whoever it is, it is a bad case.
Stand away, ladies. Let me feel his pulse."
Whilst the old man was going stiffly down on one knee, Jacintha uttered
a cry of terror. "See, see! his shirt! that red streak! Ah, ah! it is
getting bigger and bigger:" and she turned faint in a moment, and would
have fallen but for Dard.
The doctor looked. "All the better," said he firmly. "I thought he
was dead. His blood flows; then I will save him. Don't clutch me so,
Josephine; don't cling to me like that. Now is the time to show your
breed: not turn sick at the sight of a little blood, like that foolish
creature, but help me save him."
"Take him in-doors," cried the baroness.
"Into our house, mamma?" gasped Rose; "no, no."
"What," said the baroness, "a wounded soldier who has fought for France!
leave him to lie and die outside my door: what would my son say to that?
He is a soldier himself.
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