Crown and Sceptre Part 77

"To cut the guytrash down, if I can."

"Put it away," whispered Fred, angrily. "What you have come to see wants no cutting down. It's a wounded man."

"Oh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Samson, as he thrust his sword back into its sheath.

"Why didn't you say so sooner, Master Fred?"

"This way--this way," came back to him, accompanied by the rustling of branches and the sharp tearing noise made by thorns. "Yes; here we are."

Samson followed closely, with his arms outstretched, and in a minute or two he heard a sound which made him bend down to feel that Fred was kneeling, and the next moment talking to some one prostrate there in the darkness.

"Well, how are you?"

"Is that you, Master Fred?" came in a husky whisper, which made Samson start.

"Yes; I've brought you some bread and wine. How are the wounds?"

"Don't give me much pain, sir, now."

"Master Fred."

"Well?"

"Who's that?"

"Can't you hear, Samson? Your brother Nat."

There was utter silence for a minute, during which it seemed as if Samson was holding his breath, for at the end of that pause, he gave vent to a low hissing sound, which continued till it seemed wonderful that the man should have been able to retain so much air.

"Drink some of this," Samson heard Fred whisper; and there was the peculiar gurgling sound as of liquid escaping from a bottle, followed by another whisper bidding the sufferer eat.

"Look here, Master Fred," said Samson, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered from his surprise to speak.

"What is it?"

"Do you know who it is you're talking to there in the dark?"

"Yes; your brother Nat."

Samson remained silent and motionless as one of the trees for a minute.

Then he caught Fred by the shoulder.

"What is it, Samson? Do you hear any one?"

"No, sir; I was only thinking about what I ought to do now. Just stand aside, and let me come."

"What for?"

"Well, sir, that's what I don't know. Ought I to--? You see, he's an enemy."

"Samson, we can't leave him here, poor fellow! He may die for want of attention."

"Well, sir, then there'd be one enemy the less."

"Yes. Shall we leave him to die?"

"No, sir; that we won't," said Samson, severely. "We've got to make him prisoner, taking him up to my quarters, let the doctor make him well, and then I've got to spend an hour with him, just to set him to rights and pay him all I owe. Here, you sir, do you know who I am?"

"Yes," said the wounded man, feebly.

"Then look here; you've got to come on my back, and I'm going to carry you up to the camp."

"Master Fred."

"Yes, my lad."

"Don't let him touch me," whispered Nat. "I couldn't bear to be moved, sir."

"Not if we carried you gently?"

"No, sir; I feel as if it would kill me. If you could leave me some bread, sir, and some water, and let me alone, I should get well in time.

I'm only doing what the dogs do, sir, when they're hurt. I've crawled into a hole, sir, and I shall either die or get well, just the same as they do."

Fred refused to be convinced, but on trying to raise the poor fellow he seemed to inflict so much agony that he gave up, and felt disposed to return to his first ideas of coming to see the poor fellow from time to time, and giving him food.

"Better, after all, Samson," he said.

"What, leaving him, sir?"

"Yes. You do not want to see him a prisoner?"

"I don't want to see him at all, sir. He has disgraced his family by fighting against his brother. Did you bring anything to cover him up, sir?"

"No, Samson, I did not think of that."

"Well, sir, you mustn't let him die," muttered Samson; and there was a peculiar rasping sound.

"What are you doing?"

"Only getting off my leather coat, sir. Lay that over him. It may rain again any time, and he might be getting cold."

Fred caught the coat, laid it gently over the wounded man, and he was in the act of bending down to hear what he whispered by way of thanks, when there was a sharp report close at hand.

"Quick! An attack," said Fred, excitedly; and the next moment he and Samson were struggling out of the wilderness, just as shot after shot ran along the line, as the alarm spread, and directly after the ear-piercing call rang out on the clear night air, and was echoed again and again among the distant hills.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

COLONEL FORRESTER IS NOT ANGRY.

It was no easy task to run the gauntlet of the sentinels, now that the alarm had spread, for they were falling back upon the camp, and twice over Fred was challenged, and had to run the risk of a bullet; but partly by knowing the ground far better than those who challenged, and partly from the darkness, the pair succeeded in reaching the little camp, to find all in commotion, horses saddled, men ready to mount, and an intense desire existent to know from which side to expect the attack.