He pressed his lips to hers, and she whispered:
“You are my hero, Frank! Good-by!”
And so he left her. As he hurried along the dim old wood road he heard her ordering one of the men to drop his rifle, vowing she would shoot him if he did not.
This adventure had been one of the most thrilling of Frank’s eventful life, and often he had wondered if Hilda Dugan had died from the wound received at her own father’s hands. If she had not, why had she failed to write to him, as she promised?
But now he knew Hilda Dugan was not dead, for it was she who knelt there on the cold pavement and lifted his head to her lap, while all the scenes of this thrilling adventure rushed through his mind in a moment.
“Frank!” she whispered huskily, “are you badly hurt—are you killed?”
Then he stirred and struggled to sit up.
“I don’t think I’m hurt much,” he said. “The fall stunned me, that’s all.”
A crowd had gathered about, and both Frank and the girl were lifted to their feet. Hands were brushing Merriwell’s clothes, but he paid no heed, turning to the girl, who now seemed on the point of taking to flight.
“Hilda—Miss Dugan,” he said earnestly, “please don’t run away! You have no cause to be afraid of me.”