It was done.
The night wore on. Some of the hopeless cases found relief in death. From time to time others were brought in to take their places. Some of these had now been nearly forty-eight hours since being wounded, lying out in the long grass and brushwood of the hillsides or crawling slowly, painfully towards safety. Worse still, some had been through the hands of native quack doctors.
The brief, grey dawn, followed by the swift sunrise, took the place of the night. Still Sinclair worked on, for still the pleading, wistful eyes of suffering men were watching his movements and still he heard them say in words whose meaning he had come to understand:
"I-seng lâi" (The life-healer comes).
As he straightened himself after bending over a patient, Sergeant Gorman saluted him:
"Excuse me, sir; but a bad case has just come in. If I am not mistaken, it is more in need of immediate treatment than any of the others I have seen."
The jocular manner, the excessive brogue, the constant tendency to bulls and repetitions had dropped from Sergeant Gorman like a cloak. His manner was serious; his accent hardly noticeable; his bearing that of a thoroughly capable and efficient officer on important duty.
"What is the injury, sergeant?"
"A hand shot off at the wrist. The poor devil tied a cord around it to stop the blood. Been that way for two days without dressing. It's badly swollen, gangrened, and fly-blown."
"Very well, sergeant. I guess we'll have to amputate at once. Where is the patient?"