It grew darker and darker, until the open theatre of the late conflict appeared enclosed in funereal walls; a cool searching breath of air that seemed to have crept through the bracken and undergrowth like a stealthy animal, lifted the curls on his hot forehead. He grasped his hatchet firmly as against possible wild beasts, and as a medicinal and remedial precaution, took another turn with his suspender around his bandage. It occurred to him then that he would probably die. They would all feel exceedingly sorry and alarmed, and regret having made him wash himself on Saturday night. They would attend his funeral in large numbers in the little graveyard, where a white tombstone inscribed to “John Filgee, fell in a duel at the age of seven,” would be awaiting him. He would forgive his brother, his father, and Mr. Ford. Yet even then he vaguely resented a few leaves and twigs dropped by a woodpecker in the tree above him, with a shake of his weak fist and an incoherent declaration that they couldn't “play no babes in the wood on HIM.” And then having composed himself he once more turned on his side to die, as became the scion of a heroic race! The free woods, touched by an upspringing wind, waved their dark arms above him, and higher yet a few patient stars silently ranged themselves around his pillow.
But with the rising wind and stars came the swift trampling of horses' hoofs and the flashing of lanterns, and Doctor Duchesne and the master swept down into the opening.
“It was here,” said the master quickly, “but they must have taken him on to his own home. Let us follow.”
“Hold on a moment,” said the doctor, who had halted before the tree. “What's all this? Why, it's baby Filgee—by thunder!”
In another moment they had both dismounted and were leaning over the half conscious child. Johnny turned his feverishly bright eyes from the lantern to the master and back again.
“What is it, Johnny boy?” asked the master tenderly. “Were you lost?”
With a gleam of feverish exaltation, Johnny rose, albeit wanderingly, to the occasion!
“Hit!” he lisped feebly, “Hit in a doell! at the age of theven.”
“What!” asked the bewildered master.
But Doctor Duchesne, after a single swift scrutiny of the boy's face, had unearthed him from his nest of leaves, laid him in his lap, and deftly ripped away the preposterous bandage. “Hold the light here. By Jove! he tells the truth. Who did it, Johnny?”