The man with the mummy's hands was bending over him,
stripping away the useless bandage, fashioning it anew for the moment's
emergency. In a few seconds he was working at it with pitiless strength,
twisting and twisting again till the tension told, and Herne forced back
a groan.
But he clung to consciousness with all his quivering strength,
bewildered, unbelieving still, yet hovering on the edge of conviction.
"Is it really you, Bobby?" he whispered. "I can't believe it! Let me
look at you! Let me see for myself!"
The man beside him made no answer. He had snatched up the first thing he
could find, a fragment of a broken tent-peg, to tighten the pressure
upon the wound.
But, as if in response to Herne's appeal, he freed one hand momentarily,
and pushed back the covering from his face. And in the dim light Herne
looked, looked closely; then shut his eyes and sank back with an
uncontrollable shudder.
"Merciful Heaven!" he said.
VIII
"Monty, I say! Monty!"
Again the gulf of years was bridged; again the voice he knew came down
to him. Herne wrestled with himself, and opened his eyes.
The man in Arab dress was still kneeling by his side, the skeleton hands
still supported him, but the face was veiled again.
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