“Tear off his clothes! Where is he wounded? No doctor! Run to the boat for that little case of mine. Here, let me come.”
These words were uttered by Brazier with frantic haste, and directly after he uttered a cry of horror and pointed to Rob’s forehead close up amongst the hair, where a little thread of blood began to ooze forth.
“That ain’t a shot wound,” growled Shaddy. “Hi! One of you get some water.”
One of the boatmen, who had hurried up, ran back toward the stream, and just then Rob opened his lips said peevishly,—
“Don’t! Leave off! Will you be quiet? Eh! What’s the matter?”
As he spoke he thrust Brazier’s hand from his head, opened his eyes and looked round.
“What are you doing?” he cried wonderingly.
“Lower him down, Naylor,” whispered Brazier hoarsely; and Shaddy was in the act of obeying, but Rob started up into a sitting position, and then sprang to his feet.
“What are you doing, Shaddy?” he cried angrily, as he clapped his hand to his brow, withdrew it, and looked at the stained fingers. “What’s the matter with my head?”
He threw it back as he spoke, shook it, and then, as if the mist which troubled his brain had floated away like the smoke from Brazier’s gun, he cried: