But there was not a sound in reply, and, beginning to doubt his belief that there was a sentry watching, he uttered the shrill squeal again. Then his heart gave a bound, for there was a movement close at hand, as of some one trying to pass through the bushes, but it was not continued; and, while the lad was wondering, there came a low groan.
“No sentinel! Some poor wounded fellow who has crept into the old wilderness for safety,” thought Scarlett.
“But will it be an enemy?” he asked himself.
“No; one of ours,” his heart replied. “An enemy would have called for help.”
“Ah, if I was only as I used to be!” came in a low-muttering tone. “Is he in agin?”
“Nat!” cried Scarlett, the word starting from his lips involuntarily, and without his seeming to have the power to stay it.
“Eh!” came from close by, “who called? Master Scar, that you?”
“Yes, yes,” cried Scarlett; and, leaping up, he caught at a bough, which snapped in two, and he dropped down again. But his next attempt was more successful, for he drew himself out, and the next minute was kneeling by his old follower, as Nat lay nearly hidden among the undergrowth.
“I say, don’t play tricks, sir,” said Nat, feebly. “I aren’t dreaming, are I?”
“Dreaming, Nat?”