I took his hand and laid my finger on the artery. It was beating furiously,—far too fast to count, but not weakly nor faintly.
“No,” said I; “this is fever, but not debility.”
“I don't want subtleties,” rejoined he, roughly. “I want to know am I dying? Draw the curtain there, open the window full, and have a look at me.”
I did as he bade me, and returned to the bedside. It was all I could do not to cry out with astonishment; for, though terribly disfigured by his wounds, his eyes actually covered by the torn scalp that hung over them, I saw that it was Harpar lay before me, his large reddish beard now matted and clotted with blood.
“Well, what's the verdict?” cried he, sternly; “don't keep me in suspense.”
“I do not perceive any grave symptoms so far—”
“No cant, my good friend, no cant! It's out of place just now. Be honest, and say what is it to be,—live or die?”
“So far as I can judge, I say, live.”
“Well, then, set about the repairs at once. Ask for what you want,—they 'll bring it.”
Deeming it better not to occasion any shock whatever to a man in his state, I forbore declaring who I was, and set about my office with what skill I could.