Fisher's help
round the wound. They called to Tom Packer, who was scouring by, to stop
and guard me for one minute, while I was bound, or I should bleed to
death in trying to defend myself. Tom stopped directly, with a good
sabre in his hand.
In that same moment--all things seem to happen in that same moment, at
such a time--half-a-dozen had rushed howling at Sergeant Drooce. The
Sergeant, stepping back against the wall, stopped one howl for ever with
such a terrible blow, and waited for the rest to come on, with such a
wonderfully unmoved face, that they stopped and looked at him.
"See him now!" cried Tom Packer. "Now, when I could cut him out! Gill!
Did I tell you to mark my words?"
I implored Tom Packer in the Lord's name, as well as I could in my
faintness, to go to the Sergeant's aid.
"I hate and detest him," says Tom, moodily wavering. "Still, he is a
brave man." Then he calls out, "Sergeant Drooce, Sergeant Drooce! Tell
me you have driven me too hard, and are sorry for it."
The Sergeant, without turning his eyes from his assailants, which would
have been instant death to him, answers.
"No. I won't."
"Sergeant Drooce!" cries Tom, in a kind of an agony.
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