"What, indeed?" muttered Tom, still with a dazed look in his eyes.
The blood, warm and of a bright red, was gushing from the hand. It looked as if an artery had been severed. Cassie's heart sank as she saw Stanton white and immovable, and Tom transfixed with horror. She essayed to stanch the flow with her handkerchief, but it was useless. How could she let her darling brother die for want of help? Then a sudden inspiration came. She had heard of the tourniquet which surgeons use when amputation is necessary. She made Tom grasp Stanton's wrist, while she unbuttoned her cambric skirt and tore it into strips; with these she bandaged the boy's arm, tightening the knot by twisting a stick within it until there could be no longer any circulation between the hand and arm. Then she held it up and watched the success of her plan. Tom helped her as well as he could, but in a benumbed sort of way. He seemed to be in a dream, and the sight of the blood sickened him.
"Now go for water—quick!—quick!" said Cassie, taking her brother's head in her lap, and gently fanning him.
Tom obeyed. It seemed an age to Cassie before he returned, but her whole mind was absorbed in watching the wound. Already it had stopped that rapid flow, she was sure.
And now there was a change in Stanton's face—a little quiver of the lips and nostrils, a sigh, a shudder, and—oh, joy!—the boy opened his eyes and asked, "What is the matter?—where am I?"
"You have hurt yourself, dear. Lie still," whispered Cassie; "please keep still."
"But what is this? why am I all tied up? I can't use my arm."
"You have fallen, and been cut by the axe," explained Cassie, glad to have him conscious, but fearful lest any movement should start the bleeding again. "Do you think you are hurt anywhere else?"
"I don't know. I guess I am only bruised."
Tom now brought the two drinking cups full of water, and after his head was bathed, Stanton tried to get up and walk. But he was faint from loss of blood, and stiff and sore.