"A glass of wine, Nap, quick!" cried the doctor, sprinkling some water in
his patient's face, and applying ammonia to his nostrils.
He revived sufficiently to swallow with eager avidity the wine Nap held to
his lips.
"Food, for the love of God," he gasped. "I'm starving!"
"Bread, meat, coffee, anything that is on the table, Nap," said his
master; "and don't let the grass grow under your feet."
Then to the stranger, and taking gentle hold of the wounded limb: "But you
need this flow of blood stanched more than anything else. You came to me
for surgical aid, of course. Pistol-shot wound, eh? and a bad one at
that."
"Yes, I----"
"Never mind; I'll hear your story after your arm's dressed and you've had
your breakfast. You haven't strength for talk just now."
Dr. Balis had his own suspicions as he ripped up the coat sleeve, bared
the swollen limb, and carefully dressed the wound; but kept them to
himself. The stranger's clothes, though much soiled and torn in several
places by contact with thorns and briers, were of good material,
fashionable cut, and not old or worn; his manners were gentlemanly, and
his speech was that of an educated man. But all this was no proof that he
was not a villain.
"Is that mortification?" asked the sufferer, looking ruefully at the
black, swollen hand and fore-arm, and wincing under the doctor's touch as
he took up the artery and tied it.
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