CHAPTER XXXII
"GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN"
Down in that lonely Servian village, nestling beautifully
at the foot of a range of hills, a scene followed,
inexpressibly sad and mournful to me.
We carried Zoiloff to the house of the priest, a man whose heart was as large as his means were straitened, and together we laid my poor friend on the low truckle bed in the barely furnished room. I helped while the examination of his wounds was made, watching the priest's face with an anxiety that cannot be put in words.
"How did it happen?" he whispered.
"A gunshot wound somewhere in the back, I fear," I told him.
But there was no need for this explanation, for the blood guided him to the wound easily enough.
"The ball has passed through his body and through his right lung."
"Is there any hope?" I asked, my own heart answering the question before it was asked. He shook his head sadly.
"On this earth none," he said. He stopped the bleeding, which was comparatively slight.
"There is very little blood," I said, hoping against hope.
"The bleeding is internal. No man can save him. I have done all that can be done. Let us pray for him."
