Philip drew back while he
ripped open the half-breed's garments and bared his breast. Then
he darted to his bunk for the satchel in which he kept his
bandages and medicines, throwing off his coat as he went. Philip
bent over Pierre. Blood was oozing slowly from the wounded man's
right breast. Over his heart Philip noticed a blood-stained
locket, fastened by a babiche string about his neck.
Pierre's hands groped eagerly for Philip's.
"M'sieur--you will tell me--if I must die?" he pleaded. "There are
things you must know--about Jeanne--if I go. It will not hurt. I
am not afraid. You will tell me--"
"Yes," said Philip.
He could scarcely speak, and while MacDougall was at work stood so
that Pierre could not see his face. There was a sobbing note in
Pierre's breath, and he knew what it meant. He had heard that same
sound more than once when he had shot moose and caribou through
the lungs. Five minutes later MacDougall straightened himself. He
had done all that he could. Philip followed him to the back part
of the room. Almost without sound his lips framed the words, "Will
he die?"
"Yes," said MacDougall. "There is no hope. He may last until
morning."
Philip took a stool and sat down beside Pierre.
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