He was about to add dying, but he checked himself.
“And free, Master Fred? Why not? You let me alone, sir. You’ve saved me this time, for I was going to die to-night. Now I’m going to live. Rather strange for enemies, sir, isn’t it? Hark!”
Fred was already listening to a trumpet call, and springing to his feet, he prepared to go.
“I shall send a litter for you to be borne up to camp,” he said.
“No, Master Fred, please. I’m a poor helpless thing now, not strong enough to lift a spade, but if you leave me the rest of that bread, I shall do; and if you can come and look at me once or twice, that will be all I shall want. But, Heaven bless you, sir! don’t have me made a prisoner.”
“Well, Nat, I shall leave you to-night, as it’s going to be fine. But let me look at your wounds.”
“No, sir, let them bide. I did all I could to them. Come back to-morrow, sir, and if I ain’t better then, you may talk of sending me away a prisoner, with my brother Samson to stand and sneer because I am so weak.”
A second trumpet call rang out, and, unable to stay longer, Fred hurried back into the open, and made his way over to the little camp, asking himself whether he had not better disregard the poor wounded man’s prayers, and have him fetched out, always coming back to the conclusion that he would at all events leave him for another day, when he would take him an ample store of provision, if possible, and decide then as to his future course.