"There is nothing to be done for him," the surgeon said. "Nothing can save him; he is riddled with spears."
"Is he conscious?" Ronald asked.
"No, not at present."
"Will he become conscious before he dies, sir?"
"I don't know," the surgeon replied, somewhat puzzled at Ronald's question. "He may be, but I cannot say."
"It is everything to me, sir," Ronald said. "I have been accused of a great crime of which he is the author. He can clear me if he will. All my future life depends upon his speaking."
"Then I hope he may be able to speak, Blunt, but at present I can't say whether he will recover consciousness or not. He is in the waggon here, and I will let you know directly if there is any change."
Ronald lay quiet, listening to the firing that gradually became more distant, showing that the infantry were driving the Kaffirs back into the bush. Wounded men were brought in fast, and the surgeon and his assistant were fully occupied. The waggon was halted now, and at Ronald's request the stretchers upon which he and Forester were lying were taken out and laid on the grass under the shade of a tree.
Towards evening, the surgeon, having finished his pressing work, came to them. He felt George Forester's pulse.
"He is sinking fast," he said, in reply to Ronald's anxious look. "But I will see what I can do."