A Romance of Wastdale Part 13

"I haven't got a knife at all. I left mine at home."

"We must use mine, then, and knock the neck off. They have jammed the cork in so tightly, that there is no other way. Here! hold the bottle."

Hawke handed him the bottle and searched in his pocket for his knife.

He was perfectly defenceless at the moment, but the memory of Arkwright's accident had suddenly flashed upon Gordon and suggested to him a safer plan.

He added another item to his supposed new knowledge. He understood now, he fancied, why the recollection of that night in the Alps had so persistently mingled with his thoughts yesterday, and he laughed gleefully.

"What is the matter?" Hawke asked. "You seem pleased."

"I am," he replied. "It is the brandy warming me through the cork."

Hawke laughed. "It wasn't a bad suggestion, was it?"

"It was the best I ever heard from you."

Hawke found his knife and held it out to Gordon, saying--

"You had better do it! My fingers are so cursedly numbed, I should only cut myself or drop the bottle."

Gordon took the knife with his right hand, and Hawke exclaimed--

"What on earth have you done to your hand? It is covered with blood."

"Oh, it's nothing," Gordon answered quickly. "I cut it on a pointed piece of rock, that's all."

For a moment he stood with the bottle poised in one hand and the knife in the other, thinking. Then he said--

"Just take this while I open the blade," and he handed the bottle back.

"The handle will serve," said Hawke.

"The blade will do it cleaner."

Hawke took the bottle back while Gordon opened the knife. It was of a strong and heavy make, with a long, powerful blade. Gordon ran his thumb along the edge and found it sharp and even.

"Now if you will hold the bottle out," he said, "I will operate. Not that way! We shall spill it all;" and he readjusted the bottle in Hawke's hands, settling the base in his upturned palms, with the cork pointing towards himself.

"That's right," he said, and struck the neck on the side nearest to Hawke, slipped the blade on the gla.s.s, and drove it with all his force down into his left arm where it showed white below his sleeve.

The bottle crashed on the ground.

Hawke reeled against the rock wall behind him, clutching the injured wrist with his disengaged hand.

"G.o.d!" he shrieked. "It's an artery."

Gordon could see the blood spurting in quick jets, and said, quietly--

"It reminds me of Arkwright. That was an accident, too."

"Don't stand there, man--dreaming! Do something!"

Gordon laughed at the words--a low, happy laugh, which struck a new horror into Hawke.

"You meant to do it?"

Gordon nodded to him, knowingly.

"d.a.m.n you!" Hawke hissed and sunk down upon the platform beside the lanthorn, concentrating all his strength into the oath. He was still vainly endeavouring to stop the bursts from the vein by the pressure of his fingers.

Gordon knelt by his side.

"Let me look," he said.

Hawke dragged himself a few inches farther away, with an inarticulate snarl, and turned his back.

"Won't you let me help you?" Gordon asked, in a tone of gentle remonstrance.

The other shot a quick glance across his shoulder, and replied, with a beaten air--

"I could believe it was myself said that."

"But I mean it. There's the difference. Won't you let me bind up your arm?"

Hawke looked at him again and rolled over to face him, his eyes alive with hope.

"Oh, if you will," he said. "But be quick! quick! Use my scarf! Only be quick!"

Something in his manner recalled vividly to Gordon Kate's appeal to Hawke of the night before; but he unwound the scarf from the neck of the wounded man. The latter could not repress a convulsive s.h.i.+ver as he felt the touch of his fingers.

"I am sorry," Gordon apologised. "I know it must be unpleasant."

The scarf was of thick white wool, and he twisted it round the arm just above the cut and tied it firmly; but a dark stain came through it at once and widened over the folds.

"The ice-axe," gasped Hawke. "It is by your side."

Gordon took it from where it was resting on the ground, and inserting the pick into the wool, used it as a tourniquet, and strained the bandage tight.

"Thanks! thanks!" murmured Hawke. "That will hold. Give me the pole of the axe. Now run down to the Inn and get help. I may be able to last out--if only I don't freeze to death," he added, with a moan.

"It is a pity the brandy's spilt."

"Never mind that! Hurry down to the Inn."

"No! no! Austen," Gordon replied, indulgently, much as one refuses a child an impossible request. "I don't think I can do that."

Hawke raised himself upon his right elbow and peered into the other's face. Neither of them spoke, but the animation flickered out of Hawke's features, and it seemed as if a veil were drawn across the pupils of his eyes.

"You have murdered me," he said, sinking back and letting his head fall sideways on the ground.