“Put it away,” whispered Fred, angrily. “What you have come to see wants no cutting down. It’s a wounded man.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Samson, as he thrust his sword back into its sheath. “Why didn’t you say so sooner, Master Fred?”
“This way—this way,” came back to him, accompanied by the rustling of branches and the sharp tearing noise made by thorns. “Yes; here we are.”
Samson followed closely, with his arms outstretched, and in a minute or two he heard a sound which made him bend down to feel that Fred was kneeling, and the next moment talking to some one prostrate there in the darkness.
“Well, how are you?”
“Is that you, Master Fred?” came in a husky whisper, which made Samson start.
“Yes; I’ve brought you some bread and wine. How are the wounds?”
“Don’t give me much pain, sir, now.”
“Master Fred.”
“Well?”