about ten o’clock
The wound was fresh and very sore . He had played for death , with an insulting disdain , yet here he was alive . Certainly he was not intended to be drowned or knifed -- he remembered the knives he saw unsheathed -- or kicked or pummelled into the hereafter . It was about ten o'clock when he had had his `` accident '' -- he affected a smile , yet somehow he did not smile easily -- it must be now about five , for here was the morning creeping in behind the deer-skin blind at the window . Strange that he felt none the worse for his mishap , and his tongue was as clean and fresh as if he had been drinking milk last night , and not very doubtful brandy at the Cote Dorion . No fever in his hands , no headache , only the sore skull , so well and tightly bandaged but a wonderful thirst , and an intolerable hunger . He smiled .