At length he said:'Purcell,I trust this lesson shall not have been given in vain.God has been very merciful to me;I feel--I have an internal confidence that I am not wounded mortally.Had I been fatally wounded--had I been killed upon the spot,only think on it'--and he closed his eyes as if the very thought made him dizzy--'struck down into the grave,unprepared as I am,in the very blossom of my sins,without a moment of repentance or of reflection;Imust have been lost--lost for ever and ever.'
I prevailed upon him,with some difficulty,to abstain from such agitating reflections,and at length induced him to court such repose as his condition admitted of,by remaining perfectly silent,and as much as possible without motion.
O'Connor and I only were in the room; he had lain for some time in tolerable quiet,when I thought I distinguished the bustle attendant upon the arrival of some one at the castle,and went eagerly to the window,believing,or at least hoping,that the sounds might announce the approach of the medical man,whom we all longed most impatiently to see.
My conjecture was right;I had the satisfaction of seeing him dismount and prepare to enter the castle,when my observations were interrupted,and my attention was attracted by a smothered,gurgling sound proceeding from the bed in which lay the wounded man.I instantly turned round,and in doing so the spectacle which met my eyes was sufficiently shocking.
I had left O'Connor lying in the bed,supported by pillows,perfectly calm,and with his eyes closed:he was now lying nearly in the same position,his eyes open and almost starting from their sockets,with every feature pale and distorted as death,and vomiting blood in quantities that were frightful.I rushed to the door and called for assistance;the paroxy**,though violent,was brief,and O'Connor sank into a swoon so deep and death-like,that I feared he should waken no more.
The surgeon,a little,fussy man,but I believe with some skill to justify his pretensions,now entered the room,carry-ing his case of instruments,and followed by servants bearing basins and water and bandages of linen.He relieved our doubts by instantly assuring us that 'the patient'was still living;and at the same time professed his determination to take advantage of the muscular relaxation which the faint had induced to examine the wound--adding that a patient was more easily 'handled'when in a swoon than under other circumstances.
After examining the wound in front where the ball had entered,he passed his hand round beneath the shoulder,and after a little pause he shook his head,observing that he feared very much that one of the vertebrae was fatally injured,but that he could not say decidedly until his patient should revive a little.'Though his language was very technical,and consequently to me nearly unintelligible,I could perceive plainly by his manner that he considered the case as almost hopeless.
O'Connor gradually gave some signs of returning animation,and at length was so far restored as to be enabled to speak.
After some few general questions as to how he felt affected,etc.,etc.,the surgeon,placing his hand upon his leg and pressing it slightly,asked him if he felt any pressure upon the limb?O'Connor answered in the negative--he pressed harder,and repeated the question;still the answer was the same,till at length,by repeated experiments,he ascertained that all that part of the body which lay behind the wound was paralysed,proving that the spine must have received some fatal injury.
'Well,doctor,'said O'Connor,after the examination of the wound was over;'well,I shall do,shan't I?'
The physician was silent for a moment,and then,as if with an effort,he replied:
'Indeed,my dear sir,it would not be honest to flatter you with much hope.'
'Eh?'said O'Connor with more alacrity than I had seen him exhibit since the morning;'surely I did not hear you aright;I spoke of my recovery--surely there is no doubt;there can be none--speak frankly,doctor,for God's sake--am I dying?'
The surgeon was evidently no stoic,and his manner had extinguished in me every hope,even before he had uttered a word in reply.
'You are--you are indeed dying.There is no hope;I should but deceive you if Iheld out any.'
As the surgeon uttered these terrible words,the hands which O'Connor had stretched towards him while awaiting his reply fell powerless by his side;his head sank forward;it seemed as if horror and despair had unstrung every nerve and sinew;he appeared to collapse and shrink together as a plant might under the influence of a withering spell.
It has often been my fate,since then,to visit the chambers of death and of suffering;I have witnessed fearful agonies of body and of soul;the mysterious shudderings of the departing spirit,and the heart-rending desolation of the survivors;the severing of the tenderest ties,the piteous yearnings of unavailing love--of all these things the sad duties of my profession have made me a witness.But,generally speaking,I have observed in such scenes some thing to mitigate,if not the sorrows,at least the terrors,of death;the dying man seldom seems to feel the reality of his situation;a dull consciousness of approaching dissolution,a dim anticipation of unconsciousness and insensibility,are the feelings which most nearly border upon an appreciation of his state;the film of death seems to have overspread the mind's eye,objects lose their distinctness,and float cloudily before it,and the apathy and apparent indifference with which men recognise the sure advances of immediate death,rob that awful hour of much of its terrors,and the death-bed of its otherwise inevitable agonies.
