smoke-curl still lazily floated, and then the hurried, husky, panting
voice of Col. Starbottle in his ear, "He's hit hard--through the lungs
you must run for it!"

Jack turned his dark, questioning eyes upon his second, but did not
seem to listen,--rather seemed to hear some other voice, remoter in the
distance. He hesitated, and then made a step forward in the direction
of the distant group. Then he paused again as the figures separated, and
the surgeon came hastily toward him.

"He would like to speak with you a moment," said the man. "You have
little time to lose, I know; but," he added in a lower voice, "it is my
duty to tell you he has still less."

A look of despair, so hopeless in its intensity, swept over Mr.
Oakhurst's usually impassive face, that the surgeon started. "You are
hit," he said, glancing at Jack's helpless arm.

"Nothing--a mere scratch," said Jack hastily. Then he added with a
bitter laugh, "I'm not in luck to-day. But come: we'll see what he
wants."

His long, feverish stride outstripped the surgeon's; and in another
moment he stood where the dying man lay,--like most dying men,--the one
calm, composed, central figure of an anxious group. Mr. Oakhurst's face
was less calm as he dropped on one knee beside him, and took his
hand. "I want to speak with this gentleman alone," said Hamilton, with
something of his old imperious manner, as he turned to those about him.
When they drew back, he looked up in Oakhurst's face.