“But you are of opinion that the arrow was poisoned,” whispered Brace, in a whisper which was expressive of painful anxiety.
“It had been smeared with some stuff by an ignorant savage; but it may not be poisonous to human beings, and even if it were you’ve been drawing it all away from the wound.”
“Oh, make haste, men; make haste,” cried Brace excitedly.
“Let ’em be, my lad,” said Briscoe; “they’re doing their best. Come, keep cool, for your brother’s sake.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that,” cried Brace wildly. “Look at him: he’s dying and we right away in the forest like this.”
“You keep cool,” said the American sternly. “He isn’t dying nor anything like it. Only fainting from the shock, and he’ll soon come to. It won’t help him for you to turn hysterical like a girl. You began right; now keep it up.”
“What, shall I go on doing something to the wound?”
“No, I’d let that be now. You must have cleared it from anything that wiped off as the arrow passed in, and he’s a strong, brave fellow. There, look: he’s coming to.”
Sir Humphrey’s eyelids had begun to quiver, and at the end of a few minutes he had quite recovered consciousness.
He lay back gazing straight up at the boughs of the trees, beneath which they were passing more quickly now, for they were gliding along with the current; but twice over he let his eyes rest upon those of his brother, and he lightly pressed the young man’s hand.