Georg exclaimed: "Wolfgar—he——"
Tarrano turned from me. "He is not dead—but he will die. There is nothing we can do. I'm very sorry—very sorry indeed."
A sincere regret was in his tone. We lifted Wolfgar up, carried him to a depression in the floor by the wall—a shallow, couch-like bowl half-filled with down.
On the floor we gathered, seated on cushions; and presently Wolfgar regained consciousness. His face was not burned. It lighted with a dazed smile; and his eyes, searching us, picked out Maida.
"You are safe—I'm—so glad."
His voice was low and labored; and at once his eyes closed again as though the effort of speaking were too great.
Maida was sitting near me at Wolfgar's head, bending over him. She had recovered from her terror of Argo; and as she leaned down, gazing at the dying Wolfgar, I think I have never seen so gentle, so compassionate an expression upon the face of any woman.
Elza whispered: "There must be something we can do. The men of medicine—the lights—the healing lights! Georg! Cannot you use father's——"
They were only an overwrought girl's excited ideas, of course. Wolfgar's lungs were seared; even as Elza spoke, he coughed, and blood welled from his mouth—blood which Georg quickly wiped away.
Tarrano was on his feet behind us, with folded arms; and as he looked down, I saw on his face also—the face which a few moments before had been grim with deadly menace—a look now of gentle compassion very much like Maida's.