The root of the evil is not so much the shattered leg, as the little
wound in the arm, from which so much good blood was lost.
With his livid lips, no longer distinguishable from the rest of
his face, and the immense black pupils of his eyes, the man shows a
countenance irradiated by a steadfast soul, which will not give in
till the last moment. He contemplates the ravages of his body almost
severely, and without illusion, and watching the surgeons as they scrub
their hands, he says in a grave voice:
"Tell my wife that my last thoughts were of her and our children."
Ah! it was not a veiled question, for, without a moment's hesitation, he
allows us to put the mask over his face.
The solemn words seem still to echo through the ward:
"Tell my wife..."
That manly face is not the face of one who could be deceived by soft
words and consoling phrases. The white blouse turns away. The surgeon's
eyes grow dim behind his spectacles, and in solemn tones he replies:
"We will not fail to do so, friend."
The patient's eyelids flutter--as one waves a handkerchief from the deck
of a departing steamer--then, breathing in the ether steadily, he falls
into a dark slumber.
He never wakes, and we keep our promise to him.