And it struck him in the throat, just where there is the hollow, scooped-out place, in the breast bone. It went in nigh a foot, and stuck up, a fearful thing to behold, while, for half the length that protruded the spurting blood dyed it red.
Sir George stood for an instant without a movement. Then he began swaying and struggling not to fall, as does a tree, part cut through. He tried to speak, through the blood that rushed to his lips. Then he staggered, and came down on his knees.
He was close to death, and, strange chance, not so much by my hand as by his own. For a second I stood and looked at him, while he endeavored to regain his feet, but he only pitched forward, and lay prone upon the sand, crimson with his blood.
At the same moment a wave came up, covering him from sight, and nearly washing me from where I was. Lucille, with a cry of horror at what she had seen, ran toward us. As the water receded it undermined the sand where I stood, so that I was hard put to retain my place. Then I saw that Sir George was like to be carried out to sea. He dug his hands frantically into the yielding beach, but his nails only tore deep furrows in the earth. His eyes sought mine.
I would not let a dog thus die. So I leaped out after him, catching him about the waist, and, after a struggle against the action of the undertow, that seemed bound to get us both, I managed to half drag, half carry him up the slope, out of reach of the water.
Then, as I stooped over, and drew the sword blade from his throat, to have a rush of blood follow, I looked up, and there stood Lucille.
“Are you wounded, Edward?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Only a scratch,” I replied.
“And--and--Sir George?” she faltered.
“’Tis a grievous hurt,” I said, and with that Sir George, whose eyes had been closed, since I carried him out of the water, opened them.