He raised the wounded arm to his mouth and greedily drank the blood.
In a moment he felt the influence of the draught.
His veins seemed fired with new life, his brain became for the moment calm and clear, his heart regained its vigor, and gifted with temporary strength he arose on his feet, grasping the sword of the unknown in his good right hand.
Another moment passed, and with his right hand he wound a bandage of linen, torn from his bosom, around the wounded arm, securing it by a knot tied with the teeth and hand.
Meanwhile he heard the sound of panting breath, not two paces distant from the spot where he stood, and as he listened a deep-muttered groan broke on his ear.
Calling all his powers of mental and physical vigor to his aid he spoke in a faint yet determined voice—
“Who art thou?” he exclaimed.
“Thy murderer!” was the gasping response.
“How long hast thou been in this place of death?”
“Long—enough—to starve! Hell and devils! I burn—thirst—starve!”