But he opened them again, and looked round wildly, as if he were slightly delirious, but as his eyes rested on Fred’s face he grew calm, his lips parted, and he looked earnestly at him who was playing the good Samaritan where he lay.
“Ah, that seems to put life in me!” he sighed; “but you’ll get in trouble, Master Fred, for helping such a one as me. We’re enemies, don’t you see?”
“Wounded men cease to be enemies, Nat,” said Fred, bluntly, “so don’t talk about that. You were separated from your master?”
“Yes, sir, with a sword. I don’t know whose it was; but it went through my shoulder and laid open my head.”
“Ah, well, don’t talk. Drink a little more water, and I’ll go and bring some men with a litter to fetch you away, and you shall be tended carefully; rest assured of that.”
“No, no, Master Fred; let me bide here. How do I know but what Master Scar will come looking for me with some of our lads. I’ve been expecting them every minute, ever since I crawled in among the bushes; but it seemed a long time, and no one came, and no one—”
He ceased speaking, and lay back fainting.
Fred sprinkled and bathed his face for a few minutes, and then becoming alarmed at the poor fellow’s long-continued swooning, he was about to get up and run for help, when Nat slowly opened his eyes again and his lips moved.
“Where’s that Samson?” he whispered faintly.
“With my regiment.”