But the _tactus eruditus_ of the young surgeon was continuing the
search for some evidence that the savage stab was not fatal, and his
mind was busy with means for preserving life, should there be a
chance. I watched his motions, and assisted now and then when asked,
and waited with strained patience for a word upon which to base a
hope.
At last the surgeon gently dropped the hand whose pulse he had long
been examining, and said: "She is alive, and that is about all that
can be said. You see, her hands, arms, and neck are badly scorched by
the dash she made through the fire at the ranch. Then this wicked
knife-thrust has paralyzed her. She has bled considerably, too, but
she lives. Press your finger upon this artery--here."
"Can she be made to live, doctor?"
"The knife has not touched a vital part, but it may have done
irreparable injury. I can tell more presently."
Nothing more was said, except in the way of direction, for some time,
the surgeon working slowly and skilfully at the wound. At last,
rearranging the girl's clothing and replacing his instruments in their
case, he said: "If I had the girl in the post-hospital, or in a
civilized dwelling, with a good nurse, I think she might recover.
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