Suppressing the scream that arose to her lips, Elfie flew noiselessly down the ward to the spot where the nurses and night-watchers sat, and breathlessly told them of the fatality.
One of the nurses hastened out to fetch a surgeon, and the other accompanied Elfie back to her patient.
The woman immediately uncovered the stump of the mutilated limb, and placing her hand to the lips of the wound, pressed them together to stop the hemorrhage until the surgeon should arrive.
The action awoke the sleeper. He gasped for breath and stared around him in bewilderment.
Elfie was already by his side, with her hand in his. But his feeble hand had no longer the power to close on hers.
He was dying fast.
“What—has—happened?” he panted, turning his eyes, wild with the approaching struggle, up to the face of Elfie.
“My love, my love, it is only your wound bleeding a little. We will stop it soon,” she replied, in a low and soothing tone, repressing all exhibition of the despair that was nearly breaking her heart.
“I—I am dying, Elfie! Pray—pray—for me, darling,” he gasped.
Elfie sank on her knees, and spreading her arms over him, prayed fervently: