“Are you wounded?”
“Water—for Heaven’s sake, water!”
Fred started up.
Water? How could he get water?
The lake was close at hand, if he could reach it unseen, for he shrank from calling help, which meant condemning the poor fellow to a prisoner’s life as soon as he grew better. So, forcing his way along as cautiously as he could, he contrived to reach one of the trees whose boughs overhung the lake, and taking advantage of the shelter, he lay down upon his chest, grasped a stout hazel, lowered himself to where he could reach the surface, where he took off his steel morion, dipped it full, and rose carefully to bear the refreshing fluid to the suffering man.
It was not an easy task, for the undergrowth seemed to be more tangled than ever; but by stepping cautiously, he managed to bear almost every drop, and kneeling down, he gave the poor fellow a little at a time, an appealing look in the sufferer’s eyes seeming to ask for more and more.
“Can you speak, Nat?” Fred said at last, as the man lay back with his eyes closed, and without opening them he softly bent his head.
“Are you wounded?”
“Yes; badly,” came in a faint whisper.
“You were hurt at the last encounter?”