A tear dimmed the master's eagle eye as he muttered, rather than spoke, these words.
"Then I will find Dr. Arnold at once, and send him to you."
It was no easy matter, on that crowded, confused Aceldama, and the afternoon was well-nigh spent before Russell, faint and weary, descried Dr. Arnold busily using his instruments in a group of wounded. He rode up, and, having procured a drink of water and refilled his canteen, approached the surgeon.
"Doctor, where is your horse? I want you."
"Ho, Cyrus! bring him up. What is the matter, Aubrey? You are hurt."
"Nothing serious, I think. But Major Huntingdon is desperately wounded—mortally, I am afraid. See what you can do for him."
"You must be mistaken! I have asked repeatedly for Leonard, and they told me he was in hot pursuit, and unhurt. I hope to Heaven you are mistaken."
"Impossible; I tell you I lifted him out of a pool of his own blood. Come; I will show you the way."
At a hard gallop they crossed the intervening woods, and, without difficulty, Russell found the spot where the mangled form lay still. He had swooned, with his face turned up to the sky, and the ghastliness of death had settled on his strongly marked, handsome features.
"God pity Irene!" said the doctor, as he bent down and examined the horrid wound, striving to press the red lips together.