At last the doctor whispered to Sewell: “It’s no use; he must have the brandy, or he can’t live an hour.”
Sewell weakened; the tears fell down his rough, hard cheeks. “It’ll ruin him-it’s ruin or death.”
“Trust a little more in God, and in the man’s strength. Let us give him the chance. Force it down his throat—he’s not responsible,” said the physician, to whom saving life was more than all else.
Suddenly there appeared at the bedside Arrowhead, gaunt and weak, his face swollen, the skin of it broken by the whips of storm.
“He is my brother,” he said, and, stooping, laid both hands, which he had held before the fire for a long time, on Jim’s heart. “Take his feet, his hands, his, legs, and his head in your hands,” he said to them all. “Life is in us; we will give him life.”
He knelt down and kept both hands on Jim’s heart, while the others, even the doctor, awed by his act, did as they were bidden. “Shut your eyes. Let your life go into him. Think of him, and him alone. Now!” said Arrowhead in a strange voice.
He murmured, and continued murmuring, his body drawing closer and closer to Jim’s body, while in the deep silence, broken only by the chanting of his low monotonous voice, the others pressed Jim’s hands and head and feet and legs—six men under the command of a heathen murderer.
The minutes passed. The colour came back to Jim’s face, the skin of his hands filled up, they ceased twitching, his pulse got stronger, his eyes opened with a new light in them.
“I’m living, anyhow,” he said at last with a faint smile. “I’m hungry—broth, please.”
The fight was won, and Arrowhead, the pagan murderer, drew over to the fire and crouched down beside it, his back to the bed, impassive and still. They brought him a bowl of broth and bread, which he drank slowly, and placed the empty bowl between his knees. He sat there through the night, though they tried to make him lie down.