"You're a good fellow, Davis," he said; "but I would not avail myself of
your generosity if I could. I can't take much credit for refusing it. My
thigh is broken; and I am hurt besides. I couldn't keep the saddle for
ten seconds. Draw my right gauntlet off, and take my ring; you deserve
it better than the Cossacks. Keep it as long as you like; it will always
bring you a fifty, if you get hard up. And take _this_ too." He put his
hand into the breast of his uniform; but drew it back quickly. "No: it
shall stay with me while I live."
His tone and manner were just the same as if he had met with a heavy
fall, out hunting, and were answering some good-natured friend who had
stopped to pick him up.
The trooper took the ring; but he lingered still. Royston saw a knot of
the enemy sweeping down on them, like ravens on a stag wounded to the
death; his voice resumed its wonted accent of irresistible command.
"Did you hear what I said? I told you to go. Those devils will be down
on us in less than a minute. I have not fired one barrel of my revolver,
and I'm good for one or two of them yet."
The habit of obedience, more than the instinct of self-preservation,
made Davis mount and ride away without another word.
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