At the same instant, the straight, lithe form of a girl of seventeen or eighteen appeared from behind the tree.
She was directly in the line of the arrow’s flight. She, too, heard the warning, but she did not understand it. She did not dream of peril.
Then the arrow struck her, and, uttering a cry, she staggered backward and went down in a heap.
CHAPTER IV—BRUCE BROWNING’S ADVENTURE
“Heavens, she is killed!” thought Frank, leaping up and running toward the fallen girl.
There were excited exclamations from the group of archers, and a sound of hurrying footsteps.
Frank saw the girl struggle into a sitting posture and pluck away the arrow, which seemed to have lodged in the upper part of her left arm or in her shoulder. Then she staggered to her feet. When he gained her side she was trembling violently, and her thin face was as white as the face of the dead.
Only a glance was needed to tell him that she was the daughter of one of the poor whites of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Her dress was of faded cotton, her shoes heavy and coarse. In one hand she clutched a calico sunbonnet, which had dropped from her head as she fell.
“You are hurt!” gasped Merriwell. “Will you not let me assist you in some way?”
She shivered and gave him a quick glance, then stared toward the lads who were rushing in that direction. The sight galvanized her into activity.