Suddenly he
was aware of the blood welling up to his injured shoulder. He knew in an
instant that the wound had burst out afresh; knew, too, that the bandage
would be of no avail to check the flow.
"Fetch Hassan!" he jerked out.
But the man before him made no movement to obey.
"Are you going to stand by, you infernal fiend, and watch me die?" Herne
flung at him.
A thick mist was beginning to obscure his vision, but it seemed to him
that those last words of his took effect. Undoubtedly the man moved,
came nearer, stooped over him.
"Go!" Herne gasped. "Go!"
He could feel the blood soaking through the bandage under his hand,
spreading farther every instant.
This was to be the end, then, to lie at the mercy of this madman till
death came to blot out all his efforts, all his hopes. He made a last
feeble effort to stanch that deadly flow, failed, sank down exhausted.
It was then that a voice came to him out of the gathering darkness,
quick and urgent, speaking to him, as it were, across the gulf of years:
"Monty, Monty, lie still, man! I'll see to you!"
That voice recalled Herne, renewed his failing faculties, galvanized him
into life.
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