"I've been asleep," he said drowsily. "Anything wrong, Nance dear?" and
he tried to sit up, but found his head heavy with cold water bandages,
and a pain about his neck and left shoulder, and his left arm in
splints, and all the rest of him one great aching bruise.
"Why--" he murmured, in vast surprise.
"You're to lie quite still," said Nance dictatorially, with lifted
finger. "And you're not to talk or think till the Doctor comes."
"Give me a kiss, then!"--good prima facie evidence, this, that his brain
had suffered no permanent injury.
"Well, he didn't say anything about that," and she bent over him and
kissed him with a brimming flood of gratitude in her blue eyes, and he
lay quiet for a time.
"Is it dead?" he asked suddenly, with a reminiscent shudder which set
all his bruises aching.
"The white horse? Yes, Dieu merci, it's dead! But you're not to talk or
think."
"Give me another kiss, then!"--from which it was apparent that he knew
very well what kind of medicine was best adapted to his ailments.
The Doctor came down to see him the very first thing every morning, and
now he came quietly in, just as Nance had been administering her latest
dose.
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