"All right. Fill his pipe, Dubois. He is a plucky fellow; it gives one pleasure to see a man like that. We are going to take off thy arm in a trice."
"Is there no way of saving it, Monsieur Lorquin, to bring up my poor children? It is their only resource."
"No; it is no use; the bone is smashed. Light the pipe, Dubois. Now, Nicolas, smoke away."
The unhappy fellow began, though evidently without relish.
"Is all ready?" asked the doctor.
"Yes," replied Nicolas, in a husky voice.
"Good. Attention, Dubois! Sponge away."
And he made a rapid turn in the flesh with a great knife. Nicolas ground his teeth. The blood spurted up, and Dubois bound up something tightly. The saw grated for two seconds, and the arm fell heavily on the boards.
"That is what I call a well-performed operation," said Lorquin.
Nicolas was no longer smoking; the pipe had fallen from his lips. David Schlosser, of Walsch, who had held him, let go. They bound up the stump with linen, and, all unaided, Nicolas went to lie down on the straw.