"Then he owes you his life."
"Yes, yes," said the wounded one "I am grateful. Take the leg off."
"He's a Pole, forced to fight against his will," said Jim, at the doctor's astonishment.
"I see"--as he screwed a tourniquet on the shattered limb. "We're sending all their wounded to Odessa."
At which the young man groaned.
"Hold his hand," said the doctor. "He's pretty low." And Jim held the twitching hand while the knife and the saw did their work, and was not sure whether it was his hand that jumped so or the other's.
The other hand suddenly lay limp in his, and he thought the man was dead.
"Fainted," said the doctor. "He's been bleeding away for two days."
He came round, however, and tried to smile when he saw Jim still there. And presently he murmured:
"I thank." And then he looked down at his hand all caked with blood, and tried feebly to get a ring off his finger.