“Come, then, my dear boy, lean on me—so, so!”
The fandango was over.
Chapter Eight.
Seguin the Scalp-Hunter.
I have had the pleasure of being wounded in the field of battle. I say pleasure. Under certain circumstances, wounds are luxuries. How different were the feelings I experienced while smarting under wounds that came by the steel of the assassin!
My earliest anxiety was about the depth of my wound. Was it mortal? This is generally the first question a man puts to himself, after discovering that he has been shot or stabbed. A wounded man cannot always answer it either. One’s life-blood may be spurting from an artery at each palpitation, while the actual pain felt is not worth the pricking of a pin.
On reaching the Fonda, I sank exhausted on my bed. Saint Vrain split my hunting-shirt from cape to skirt, and commenced examining my wound. I could not see my friend’s face as he stood behind me, and I waited with impatience.
“Is it deep?” I asked.