Blood dripped also from his hands.
"I'm only a backwoods doctor, Dunwody," said Jamieson at length, as
he began rebandaging the limb. "I reckon there's a heap of good
surgeons up North that could make a finer job of this. God knows,
I wish they'd had it, and not me. But with what's at hand, I've
done the best I could. My experience is, it's pretty hard to kill
a man.
"Wait now until I get some splints--hold still, can't you! If we
have to cut your leg off after a while, I can do a better job than
this, maybe. But now we have all done the best we could. Young
lady, your arm again, if you please. God bless you!"
The face of Josephine St. Auban was wholly colorless as once more
she assisted the doctor with his patient. They got him upon his
own bed at last. To Dunwody's imagination, although he could never
settle it clearly in his mind, it seemed that a hand had pushed the
hair back from his brow; that some one perhaps had arranged a
pillow for him.
Jamieson left the room and dropped into a chair in the hall, his
face between his hands.
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