Saturated with rain, breathless with running, and with the arm which supported Don Rafaele sweating with pain, he shortly arrived at the beach. To attempt to look for his two boatmen, or any other object, however close it might be, while the hail was pouring down so furiously, would have been the height of folly, and was a project that did not once occur to him. When he recovered his breath, however, he called out, according to the preconcerted arrangement, at the top of his voice; and then listened anxiously for an answer.
“Holloa, ho!” was the prompt reply.
Catching the direction of the voice, which was close at hand, he sprang forward amain, and shortly came up with the two boatmen.
“Hurrah, Captain! what cheer?” cried the two sailors, discerning him.
“No good, lads!” answered Hildebrand. And, bending a little, he spoke in a lower tone to Don Rafaele. “Where art thou hurt, my Rafaele?” he said.
“I’ the arm,” replied Don Rafaele, faintly. “Moreover, the wound bleeds apace.”
“Here, my lads, hold him up!” cried Hildebrand. “We cannot go off while this hail lasts, and, meantime, I must tie up his wound.”
The two rough mariners caught Don Rafaele in their arms directly, and held him up, with more tenderness than one would have looked for, while Hildebrand bandaged his wound. This he did with a scarf, which he took out of his hat; and though, being afraid to expose him any way to the cold, he was obliged to tie it over his coat, the stay which it afforded the arm lent Don Rafaele immediate ease.