Jerry Boyle lay upon his back, his bloodless face toward them, as they gathered noiselessly in the door of the tent. His eyes were standing open, great and questioning, out of his pallor, nothing but the animal quality of bewilderment and fear in their wide stare.
Governor Boyle went in and dropped to his knees beside the cot. Dr. Slavens followed hastily, and placed his hand on the wounded man’s breast.
“You may listen,” said he; “but keep still.”
“Don’t even try to whisper,” admonished the Governor, taking his son’s hand between his own.
“That’s all right, Governor,” replied the young man, his face quickening with that overrunning little crinkling, like wind over water, which was his peculiar gift for making his way into the hearts of women and men, unworthy as he was.
“Be still!” commanded the old man. “I know what happened. There’s nothing to say now.” 324
“Did I get him?” whispered Jerry, turning his head a little and looking eagerly into his father’s face.
The Governor placed his hand over his son’s mouth, silencing the young man with a little hissing sound, like a mother quieting her babe.
Agnes turned away, the disgust which she felt for this savage spirit of the man undisguised in her face. Dr Slavens cautioned the Governor again.
“If he says another word, you’ll have to leave him,” said he. “This is one case where talk will turn out anything but cheap.”