Most of the mob were armed with pikes, staves, swords, muskets, and other weapons, and offered a most desperate resistance to the soldiery, whom they drove back with a shower of paving-stones. Yes, yes; that was all very well in ordinary cases; but yonder was a soul in travail, if ever she had seen one. Ah! I shall never forget the figure Jack cut on that occasion. He looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. While they were still engaged in looking round the doctor returned with a nurse and assistant. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. I knew him in spite of his dress. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon.
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