“No.”
“Thank God, my lad! We thought they’d done for you.”
I got a sight now of glittering bayonets, and through the foul powder smoke, I caught glimpses of the faces of convicts looking over the sides of their hammocks.
“Turn that man over,” said the same voice I had heard before, as two men took charge of me. “Dead, I think. Who is it?”
“Ninety-seven,” said one of the warders, and it seemed to be Fraser.
“Oh! Did you stab him, Rowan?”
“No, sir,” I said feebly.
“Humph! someone has. Twice. Look sharp, my lads, or he’ll bleed to death. To the doctor.”
As fortune had it, I was carried out, and laid down on the deck, just as the doctor rose, from where he had been on one knee by a figure at my side.
“Carry him out, my lads; he’s past my help. One of you shot pretty truly.”