For a minute none of the three said a word, then Señor Cisneros suggested that perhaps the lad had remained behind.
“No. That’s not his way. He would be with us unless hurt, or——”
Hope-Jones could not find the word for the alternative; his voice choked. “Let’s hurry back,” he added.
They did so, going as fast as when in pursuit of the enemy, and not stopping until they had reached the fort. Outside they saw their boy companion lying beside a large stone not a hundred yards from the opening. An arrow was fastened in his breast.
Hope-Jones dropped on his knees. Ferguson reached over to pull out the arrow, but was restrained by the captain.
“Don’t,” he said. “It might cause a fatal hemorrhage if there is not one already. Wait until we see how far it has entered;” and he commenced unfastening Harvey’s coat, which had been buttoned close, that it might not impede his action.
“I fear it has reached his heart,” said the Englishman, in a whisper. “See, it penetrated the left side.”
“His hands are cold,” Ferguson added. “I cannot feel the pulse.”
All three were quite pale and were trembling. It seemed probable that life had left the boy’s body.
“Bring some water, quickly,” said the captain. “I will do the best I can.”