The ball had entered between the third and fourth rib, and there they found the wound. Smith and Spilett turned the poor boy over. At this he uttered a moan so faint that they feared it was his last breath. There was another wound on his back, for the bullet had gone clean through. “Thank Heaven!” said the reporter, “the ball is not in his body; we shall not have to extract it.” “But the heart?” asked Smith. “The heart has not been touched, or he would be dead.” “Dead!” cried Pencroff, with a groan. He had only heard the reporter’s last word. “No, Pencroff,” answered Smith. “No he is not dead; his pulse still beats; he has even uttered a groan. For his sake, now, you must be calm. We have need of all our self-possession; you must not be the means of our losing it, my friend.” Pencroff was silent, but large tears rolled down his cheeks. Meanwhile, Spilett tried to recall to memory the proper treatment of the case before him. There seemed no doubt that the ball had entered in front and gone out by the back; but what injuries had it done by the way? Had it reached any vital spot? This was a question which even a professional surgeon could not have answered at once. There was something, however, which Spilett knew must be done, and that was to keep down the inflammation, and to fight against the fever which ensues upon a wound. The wound must be dressed without delay. It was not necessary to bring on a fresh flow of blood by the use of tepid water and compresses, for Herbert was already too weak. The wounds, therefore, were bathed with cold water. Herbert was placed upon his left side and held in that position. “He must not be moved,” said Spilett; “he is in the position most favorable to an easy suppuration, and absolute repose is necessary.” “Cannot we take him to Granite House?” asked Pencroff. “No, Pencroff,” said the reporter. Spilett was examining the boy’s wounds again with close attention. Herbert was so frightfully pale that he became alarmed. “Cyrus,” said he, “I am no doctor. I am in a terrible strait; you must help me with your advice and assistance.” “Calm yourself, my friend,” answered the engineer, pressing his hand. “Try to judge coolly. Think only of saving Herbert.” Spilett’s self-possession, which in a moment of discouragement his keen sense of responsibility had caused him to lose, returned again at these words. He seated himself upon the bed; Smith remained standing, Pencroff had torn up his shirt and began mechanically to make lint.