"Oh, very clearly," I answered. "The Indians got Brightson down and stabbed him, and just then you sprang up and cried the troops were coming, and sure enough, there they were just entering the clearing, and the Indians paused only for one look and then fled down the stairs as fast as they could go. 'T was you who saved us all, Dorothy."
"Oh, but there was something more!" she cried. "There was one Indian who did not run, Tom, but who stopped to aim at me. I saw him do it, and I closed my eyes, for I knew that he would kill me, and I heard his gun's report, but no bullet struck me. For it was you whom it struck, dear, through your hand and into your side, and for long we thought you dying."
"Yes," I said, "but you see I am not dying, nor like to die, dear
Dorothy, so that I may still rejoin the troops erelong."
She was looking at me with streaming eyes.
"Do you mean that I am not going to get well, Dorothy?" I asked, for I confess her tears frightened me.
"Oh, not so bad as that, dear!" she cried. "Thank God, not so bad as that! But your hand, Tom, your right hand is gone. You can never wield a sword again, dear, never go to war. You will have to stay at home with me."
I know not how it was, but she was in my arms, and her lips were on mine, and I knew that was no more parting for us.
CHAPTER XVIII
AND SO, GOOD-BY
Well, a right hand is a little price to pay for the love of a wife like mine, and if I have made no name in the world, I at least live happy in it, which is perhaps a greater thing. And I have grown to use my left hand very handily. I have learnt to write with it, as the reader knows,—and when I hold my wife to me, I have her ever next my heart.