Herbert’s chest was laid bare, and the blood having been stanched with handkerchiefs, it was bathed with cold water.
The contusion, or rather the contused wound appeared,—an oval below the chest between the third and fourth ribs. It was there that Herbert had been hit by the bullet.
Cyrus Harding and Gideon Spilett then turned the poor boy over; as they did so, he uttered a moan so feeble that they almost thought it was his last sigh.
Herberts back was covered with blood from another contused wound, by which the ball had immediately escaped.
“God be praised!” said the reporter, “the ball is not in the body, and we shall not have to extract it.”
“But the heart?” asked Harding.
“The heart has not been touched; if it had been, Herbert would be dead!”
“Dead!” exclaimed Pencroft, with a groan.
The sailor had only heard the last words uttered by the reporter.
“No, Pencroft,” replied Cyrus Harding, “no! He is not dead. His pulse still beats. He has even uttered a moan. But for your boy’s sake, calm yourself. We have need of all our self-possession.”