Browning's fingers shook as he got out a match. He prayed that he might not look on the face of his dead
friend. The horrible fear of what he might see completely unmanned him.
Scratch—splutter—flare!
He lighted the match, and it blazed up at once. Its light showed him the sight he had dreaded to behold. Frank Merriwell lay before him, his face ghastly pale, his eyes closed.
The match dropped from the nerveless fingers of the big Yale man and went out. A low groan escaped his lips.
Then came the thought that Merriwell might not be dead. Quickly he caught up the body, flung it over his shoulders, and then he literally leaped up the creaking stairs.
Bruce did not pause till he had carried Frank outside the building. Then he took a look at Merry's pale face, saw blood trickling down out of his hair, and rushed with him to the well near the house.
Placing Frank on the ground, the big fellow fell to bathing his head, upon which was a slight wound that cut through the scalp. It was not twenty seconds before Frank opened his eyes.
Bruce gave an exclamation of joy.
"By Heaven! I thought you were dead!" he cried.