“Shall you hurt him much?” said Mark.
“I shall hurt him,” said the doctor, upon whose busy fingers the light now played.
“What a horrid wound!” said Mark.
“Bad enough to kill him from mortification!” said the doctor softly. “Yes, just as I expected. Here’s a long splinter of the bone festering in this great wound—I should say small wound, poor little chap! I’m afraid mine is going to be rough surgery, but this piece must come out. What’s to be done?”
“Take it out,” said Mark.
“Do you dare hold his arm up?”
“Yes,” said Mark, “if it’s to do him good.”
“It is, of course; but these people looking on don’t know. Ah, lucky thought—tell Mak to bend over and hold the light. Then you raise the poor little fellow’s arm, and I’ll do the best I can.”
The change was made, the doctor busied himself, and in the course of his manipulations there was a bright flash of light as the little lantern played for a few seconds upon the keen blade of a small knife which the doctor took from his case, while consequent upon its use a faint cry escaped from the wounded black, and there was a low murmur, which sounded ominous to Mark’s ears.