XXIV
"Fought the Fight"
Bob lay white and still upon his bed, breathing painfully. Two of Pink's bullets had torn their way through his lungs, and the third had splintered his collar-bone. A surgeon had come out from Asheville, and, after examining the wounds, had sent for help. When the second physician arrived, they had probed and prodded the inert body, while Dr. Morgan, with an ever-growing fear clutching at his heart, administered the chloroform with a steady hand. Outside the door Mrs. Morgan had knelt against the wall, tearless, and without a word of prayer.
Now it was over, and there was no hope, only waiting for the end,—the waiting that saps courage from the heart of the onlooker, and makes endurance seem a thing impossible; the torture of seeing suffering that is not to be relieved; suffering that seems all unnecessary, since death is to be the issue after all.
Bob had asked for Sydney as soon as he came out of the chloroform, and she had responded at once.
"You won't leave me, dear?" he had questioned, when he opened his eyes from the drowsiness that the opiate forced upon him, and saw her sitting beside him.
"No, Bob; I'll stay as long as you want me."
He had smiled feebly at her.
"It won't be very long."