“What? Where?” said the doctor, kneeling down beside him and tearing open his coat and vest. “Oh, my God!” cried the doctor. “He is—” The doctor paused abruptly.
“What do you say? Oh, Dr. Martin, he is not badly wounded?” Moira threw herself on her knees beside the wounded man and caught his hand. “Oh, it is cold, cold,” she cried through rushing tears. “Can you not help him? Oh, you must not let him die.”
“Surely he is not dying?” said Cameron.
The doctor was silently and swiftly working with his syringe.
“How long, Doctor?” inquired Raven in a quiet voice.
“Half an hour, perhaps less,” said the doctor brokenly. “Have you any pain?”
“No, very little. It is quite easy. Cameron,” he said, his voice beginning to fail, “I want you to send a letter which you will find in my pocket addressed to my brother. Tell no one the name. And add this, that I forgive him. It was really not worth while,” he added wearily, “to hate him so. And say to the Superintendent I was on the straight with him, with you all, with my country in this rebellion business. I heard about this raid; and I fancy I have rather spoiled their pemmican. I have run some cattle in my time, but you know, Cameron, a fellow who has worn the uniform could not mix in with these beastly breeds against the Queen, God bless her!”
“Oh, Dr. Martin,” cried the girl piteously, shaking him by the arm, “do not tell me you can do nothing. Try—try something.” She began again to chafe the cold hand, her tears falling upon it.
Raven looked up quickly at her.
“You are weeping for me, Miss Moira?” he said, surprise and wonder in his face. “For me? A horse-thief, an outlaw, for me? I thank you. And forgive me—may I kiss your hand?” He tried feebly to lift her hand to his lips.