“He’s not dead; run for the surgeon!” said one, feeling his pulse.
An eager crowd was soon gathered around, and by the dim light afforded by one or two torches the scene presented a weird appearance. In a few moments the surgeon was at the side of the wounded man, and applying some restoratives he soon became conscious again. Opening his eyes with a wild stare, Iron Hand glanced around upon the assembly.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Here, in the fort,” said the surgeon.
Raising himself, he looked around him again, and then uttering a wild cry, fell backward.
“What is this strange feeling that comes over me?” he asked in a husky whisper, pressing his hands on his bloody wound. “Am I dying?”
“I fear you are,” responded the surgeon.
“What! dying did you say?” he repeated, in a hollow voice. “My God! must I die?”
“Yes; make your peace with your Maker, for you have but an hour or so longer to live.”
A shudder shook the man’s whole frame, and his eyes glared wildly.