"The bullet just grazed his head."
Lucia looked up. She was ashen. She was older, and her eyes seemed to have
lost their fire. "He's--really--alive?" she got out. She stared down at her
husband.
"They should of shot 'im in the stomach!" Uncle Henry stated. What a mess!
What rotten luck, ran through his weary brain.
Pell's foot moved again. Then his arm went up; and slowly he rose on one
elbow, pushed away the tablecloth that touched his head, and looked about
him. He was like a man awaking from a sound slumber. He was dazed,
mystified. In the almost complete darkness, he could not distinguish faces.
"What was it? What happened?" he inquired, in a hollow voice--a voice from
the tomb!
No one answered. They were all terror-stricken.
"I can't remember," the hollow voice went on. He fell back on the floor. He
was weak from the loss of blood. "Red" lifted him up, and helped him around
the table to a chair.
Lucia's eyes never left Morgan Pell's face. Was she dreaming? Was this some
madness that had come to her? This brute come back to life! It was
unbearable, unbelievable. She could not adjust her mind to the situation.
But with true feminine instinct, she found herself leaving her chair where
she had sat so long, going to the kitchen and getting a cup of water.
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