“When will it all be over?” he said to himself. “I wonder where Scar is;” and then he thought how horrible it would be if ever he were to meet his old friend in action.
“And him with a sword in his hand and me with a sword in mine,” he muttered. “Should we fight? I suppose so,” he added, after a few moments’ thought. “We are enemies now.”
He started up on his elbow, for just then there was a cheer, in salutation of a man who was coming slowly up, leading his horse; and it only needed a second glance to show that it was Samson.
Fred forgot his weariness, sprang up, and ran toward his follower, who caught sight of him directly, and hastened to meet him.
“Oh!” ejaculated Fred, as he drew nearer and caught sight of the man’s face. “What a horrible wound! Samson, lad, we thought you a prisoner, or dead.”
“I arn’t a prisoner, because I’m here,” grumbled Samson; “and I arn’t dead yet, thank ye, Master Fred.”
“But your wound. Come on to the surgeon at once.”
“My wound, sir?”
“Yes. Your face looks terrible. How did you manage to get here?”
“Face looks terrible—manage to get here! I’ll tell you, sir. A big fellow with a broad grey hat and feathers, and all long hair and ragged lace, spurred at me, and, if I hadn’t been tidy sharpish, he’d have rode me down. Hit at me, too, he did, with his sword, and caught me on the shoulder, but it didn’t cut through the leather; and, ’fore he could get another cut at me, I give him a wipe on the head as made him rise up in his sterrups and hit at me with his fist.”