Long and earnestly he gazed at the face of the girl who had, undoubtedly, saved his life, though at the forfeit of her own. The features were already pinched and drawn, and the rich color of the cheeks had faded to a dull, ashen gray, save where two hectic spots indicated her rising temperature. For, upon that countenance, the Angel of Death had set his dread seal, and passed upon his way.
Oppressed by deep pity and many troubled thoughts, Ellis sank into a gloomy reverie from which he was aroused by Musgrave returning—alone. Arising quietly, he obeyed the other’s silent motion and followed him outside.
“Well,” he said listlessly, slipping on the red serge which his companion handed to him, “did you see him, Charley?”
Musgrave glanced curiously at the powerful, still profile of the man before him.
“Yes,” he said slowly. And even his trained nerves could not suppress a slight shudder at the remembrance. “Poor old Wardle’s gone home feeling pretty sick, I can tell you ... an’ I don’t wonder. You’re some bad man with a gun, Ellis.”
The Sergeant, with mind sunk in a fit of abstraction, eyed him absently.
“Eyah,” he said. “I guess I put the sign on him, all right.”
The doctor scrutinized the drawn, blood-stained face closely.
“Look here,” he said kindly. “You look a bit strapped, old man. You go on home to bed now. I’ll stop with the girl!”
The considerate words seemed to arouse the other strangely.