CHAPTER VII
THE WOUNDED PATRIOT
When Angela entered the sick-room she found Dr. McGinnis, a cheery,
bright-eyed, rotund little man of fifty, talking freely to the
patient and punctuating each speech with a hearty laugh. His good-
humour was infectious.
The wounded agitator felt the effect of it and was trying to laugh
feebly himself.
"Sure it's the fine target ye must have made with yer six feet and
one inch. How could the poor soldiers help hittin' ye? Answer me
that?" and the jovial doctor laughed again as he dexterously wound a
bandage around O'Connell's arm.
"Aisy now while I tie the bandage, me fine fellow. Ye'll live to see
the inside of an English jail yet."
He turned as he heard the door open and greeted Angela.
"Good afternoon to ye, Miss Kingsnorth. Faith, it's a blessin' ye
brought the boy here. There's no tellin' What the prison-surgeon
would have done to him. It is saltpetre, they tell me, the English
doctors rub into the Irish wounds, to kape them smartin'. And, by
the like token, they do the same too in the English House of
Commons. Saltpetre in Ireland's wounds is what they give us."
"Is he much hurt?" asked Angela.
"Well, they've broken nothin'. Just blackened his face and made a
few holes in his skin.
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