Now!" said
Arrowhead in a strange voice.
He murmured, and continued murmuring, his body drawing closer and closer
to Jim's body, while in the deep silence, broken only by the chanting of
his low monotonous voice, the others pressed Jim's hands and head and
feet and legs--six men under the command of a heathen murderer.
The minutes passed. The colour came back to Jim's face, the skin of his
hands filled up, they ceased twitching, his pulse got stronger, his eyes
opened with a new light in them.
"I'm living, anyhow," he said at last with a faint smile. "I'm hungry--
broth, please."
The fight was won, and Arrowhead, the pagan murderer, drew over to the
fire and crouched down beside it, his back to the bed, impassive and
still. They brought him a bowl of broth and bread, which he drank
slowly, and placed the empty bowl between his knees. He sat there
through the night, though they tried to make him lie down.
As the light came in at the windows, Sewell touched him on the shoulder,
and said: "He is sleeping now."
"I hear my brother breathe," answered Arrowhead.
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