As Paul spoke he struggled halfway to his feet only to sink back again with his breath catching in pain. His left hand, with which he had tried to pull himself up, fell from the wheel. He compared it with his right. Both were swollen and purple. The cuffs of the oilskin coat dropped back and showed his shirt wristbands choking the flesh. But it was not his hands that hurt so much as it was his feet. They seemed ready to burst the shoes.
A sob broke from Emily at his helplessness. She dropped on her knees at his side and picked up his right hand. All the tenderness of her woman nature was alive in the instant.
"What is it, Paul? Your feet—your hands!"
Tears choked further utterance. Alarm for his safety seized her. A terrible apprehension touched her heart.
"There never was a battle fought without somebody getting hurt." He tried to smile despite his pain. "Remember I was at the wheel a pretty long time."
"More than thirty hours."
"That long?" He nodded. "Please get me a knife—there ought to be one in the pantry."
"A knife?" she repeated with misgiving. He nodded.
Emily hastened below and returned with a small sharp carver. Paul held out both hands to her.
"Cut——"