"Just take this while I open the blade," and he handed the bottle back. "The handle will serve," said Hawke. "The blade will do it cleaner." Hawke took the bottle back while Gordon opened the knife. It was of a strong and heavy make, with a long, powerful blade. Gordon ran his thumb along the edge and found it sharp and even. "Now if you will hold the bottle out," he said, "I will operate. Not that way! We shall spill it all;" and he readjusted the bottle in Hawke's hands, settling the base in his upturned palms, with the cork pointing towards himself. "That's right," he said, and struck the neck on the side nearest to Hawke, slipped the blade on the glass, and drove it with all his force down into his left arm where it showed white below his sleeve. The bottle crashed on the ground. Hawke reeled against the rock wall behind him, clutching the injured wrist with his disengaged hand. "God!" he shrieked. "It's an artery." Gordon could see the blood spurting in quick jets, and said, quietly-- "It reminds me of Arkwright. That was an accident, too." "Don't stand there, man--dreaming! Do something!" Gordon laughed at the words--a low, happy laugh, which struck a new horror into Hawke. "You meant to do it?" Gordon nodded to him, knowingly. "Damn you!" Hawke hissed and sunk down upon the platform beside the lanthorn, concentrating all his strength into the oath. He was still vainly endeavouring to stop the bursts from the vein by the pressure of his fingers. Gordon knelt by his side. "Let me look," he said. Hawke dragged himself a few inches farther away, with an inarticulate snarl, and turned his back. "Won't you let me help you?" Gordon asked, in a tone of gentle remonstrance. The other shot a quick glance across his shoulder, and replied, with a beaten air-- "I could believe it was myself said that." "But I mean it. There's the difference. Won't you let me bind up your arm?" Hawke looked at him again and rolled over to face him, his eyes alive with hope. "Oh, if you will," he said. "But be quick! quick! Use my scarf! Only be quick!" Something in his manner recalled vividly to Gordon Kate's appeal to Hawke of the night before; but he unwound the scarf from the neck of the wounded man. The latter could not repress a convulsive shiver as he felt the touch of his fingers. "I am sorry," Gordon apologised. "I know it must be unpleasant." The scarf was of thick white wool, and he twisted it round the arm just above the cut and tied it firmly; but a dark stain came through it at once and widened over the folds. "The ice-axe," gasped Hawke. "It is by your side." Gordon took it from where it was resting on the ground, and inserting the pick into the wool, used it as a tourniquet, and strained the bandage tight. "Thanks! thanks!" murmured Hawke. "That will hold. Give me the pole of the axe. Now run down to the Inn and get help. I may be able to last out--if only I don't freeze to death," he added, with a moan.