He was aware of grasping those
sweeping horns, conscious of a blow which tore the flesh from his chest;
and then his knife--how came it in his hand?--with the instinct of the
true hunter. He plunged it once, twice, past a foaming mouth, into that
firm body, and then both fell together; each having fought valiantly
after his kind.
Gregory dragged himself from beneath the still heaving body, and
stretched to his feet; but a blindness came, and the next knowledge he
had was of brandy being poured slowly between his teeth, and of a voice
coming through endless distances: "A fighter, a born fighter," it said.
"The pluck of Lucifer--good boy!"
Then the voice left those humming spaces of infinity, and said: "Tilt him
this way a little, Big Moccasin. There, press firmly, so. Now the band
steady--together--tighter--now the withes--a little higher up--cut them
here." There was a slight pause, and then: "There, that's as good as an
army surgeon could do it. He'll be as sound as a bell in two weeks. Eh,
well, how do you feel now? Better? That's right! Like to be on your
feet, would you? Wait.
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