The wounded man lay on a lounge in the office room, which was dimly lighted by the dying glow of the outside torches and an oil lamp hurriedly brought in.

No one was present except St.George, Harry, the doctor, and a negro woman who had brought in some pillows and hot water.
All that could be done for him had been done; he was unconscious and his life hung by a thread.

Harry, now that the mysterious thing called his "honor" had been satisfied, was helping Teackle wash the wound prior to an attempt to probe for the ball.
The boy was crying quietly--the tears streaming unbidden down his cheeks--it was his first experience at this sort of thing.

He had been brought up to know that some day it might come and that he must then face it, but he had never before realized the horror of what might follow.

And yet he had not reached the stage of regret; he was sorry for the wounded man and for his suffering, but he was not sorry for his own share in causing it.