To the story that we told, first one talking, then another, all of us excited and all of us, except Arnold Lamont, who never lost his calm precision and the girl who did not speak at all, fairly incoherent with emotion, Gideon North replied scarcely a word.
"The black beasts!" Gleazen cried in a voice that shook with rage. "I'd give my last chance of salvation to send a broadside among them yonder."
"Ah, that's no great price," Matterson murmured sourly. "I'd give more than that—many times more, my friend. Think you, Captain North, that a man of spirit would soon forget or forgive such a token as this?" And he pointed at the raw wound the spear had left on his face.
Gleazen stepped close beside him. "Hm! It's sloughing," he said.
"It's hot and it throbs like the devil," Matterson replied.
Arnold also came over to Matterson and looked at the wound.
"It needs attention," he commented. "It certainly is not healing as it should."
Matterson raised his brows angrily. "Let it be," he returned.
With a slight lift of his head, Arnold faced about and walked slowly away.