“Ye mauna do it, ye mauna do it, sir,” said Sandy, sternly; “ye are lying in a pool of blood this minute, and it's no time for a hearty laugh. Ech! ech! sir,” continued he, turning towards his master, “if we had that salve the Delawares used to put on their wounds, I wadna say but we 'd stap it yet.”
By this time old Peter had laid his hand on the sick man's wrist, and, with a large watch laid before him on the bed, was counting his pulse aloud.
“It's a hundred and fifty,” said he, in a whisper, which, although intended for Daly's ear, was overheard by Forester; “but it's thin as a thread, and looks like inward bleeding.”
“What's to be done, then? have you anything to advise?” said Daly, almost savagely.
“Very little,” said Hickman, with a malignant grin, “except writing to his friends. I know nothing else to serve him.”
A brief shudder passed over Daly's stern features, rather like the momentary sense of cold than proceeding from any mental emotion, and then he said, “I spoke to you as a doctor, sir; and I ask you again, is there nothing can be done for him?”
“Well, well, we might plug up the wound, to be sure, and give him a little wine, for he's sinking fast. I 've got a case of instruments and some lint in the gig—never go without the tools, Mr. Daly—there's no knowing when one may meet a little accident like this.”
“In Heaven's name, then, lose no time!” said Daly. “Whatever you can do, do it at once.”
The tone of command in which he spoke seemed to act like a charm on the old doctor, for he turned at once to hobble from the room.
“My servant will bring what you want,” said Daly, impatiently.