In Which What Threatened to Be Tragedy Turns to Comedy
With a smothered cry Diana flew across the room to where my lord lay in a pitiful little heap, but before her was Richard. He fell on his knees beside the still figure, feeling for the wound.
Diana, on the other side, looked across at him.
“ ’Tis his shoulder, sir—an old wound. Oh, he is not—he cannot be— dead ?”
Richard shook his head dumbly and gently laid bare the white shoulder. The wound was bleeding very slightly, and they bound it deftly betwixt them, with their united handkerchiefs and a napkin seized from the table.
“ ’Tis exhaustion, I take it,” frowned Richard, his hand before the pale lips. “He is breathing still.”
Over her shoulder Diana shot an order: