“Do you think you could get to the cabin, if I helped you?” said I.
“I shall never get there—let me die where I am,” said he.
“But the cut on your head is not very deep,” replied I.
“No, I don’t feel it;—but—my side—I bleed inwardly—I am—broken to pieces,” said he, pausing and gasping between each word.
I looked at his side, and perceived that it was already black and much swollen. I offered him more drink, which he took eagerly, and I then returned for a further supply. I filled two of the wine-bottles with water and a small drop of spirits as before, and went back to where he lay. I found him more recovered, and I had hopes that he might still do well, and I told him so.
“No, no,” replied he; “I have but a few hours to live—I feel that. Let me die here, and die in peace.”
He then sank into a sort of stupor, occasioned, I presume, by what I had given him to drink, and remained quite quiet, and breathing heavily. I sat by him waiting till he should rouse up again; for more than an hour I was in a very confused state of mind, as may well be imagined, after what had passed in the night.