of the sailor's knife.

"Wait, wait," he said. "We will let down the anchor."

They cast anchor, and then began to turn the capstan to loosen the
moorings of the net. They loosened them at length and disengaged the
imprisoned arm, in its bloody woolen sleeve.

Young Javel seemed like an idiot. They took off his jersey and saw a
horrible sight, a mass of flesh from which the blood spurted as if from a
pump. Then the young man looked at his arm and murmured: "Foutu" (done
for).

Then, as the blood was making a pool on the deck of the boat, one of the
sailors cried: "He will bleed to death, we must bind the vein."

So they took a cord, a thick, brown, tarry cord, and twisting it around
the arm above the wound, tightened it with all their might. The blood
ceased to spurt by slow degrees, and, presently, stopped altogether.

Young Javel rose, his arm hanging at his side. He took hold of it with
the other hand, raised it, turned it over, shook it. It was all mashed,
the bones broken, the muscles alone holding it together. He looked at it
sadly, reflectively. Then he sat down on a folded sail and his comrades
advised him to keep wetting the arm constantly to prevent it from
mortifying.

They placed a pail of water beside him, and every few minutes he dipped a
glass into it and bathed the frightful wound, letting the clear water
trickle on to it.