CHAPTER XI.
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER.
How those polished, cruel-looking instruments sparkled, and glittered, and flashed; and how the sick man shuddered as he glanced toward the table where they lay, asking, with quivering lip, if there were no other alternative save the one their presence suggested.
“None but speedy death!” was the response of the attending surgeon, who was too much accustomed to just such scenes as this, to appreciate the feelings of that poor soldier, shrinking so painfully from what they told him must be if he would live.
“None but speedy death,”—George repeated the words slowly to himself, dwelling longest upon the last, as if to accustom himself to thoughts of it.
“Wait a little, wait till I think the matter over,” he said, in reply to the question, “are you ready?”
