“Man, don’t say he’s dead!” whispered Tim, in awe-stricken tones.
Norman made no reply, and Rifle bent softly over the inanimate black figure before him, and laid a hand upon the sufferer’s breast.
“You were too late, Tim; too late,” sighed Rifle. “I’d heard those things would drown people, but I didn’t believe it till now. Oh, poor old Shanter! You were very black, but you were a good fellow to us all.”
“And we ought to have saved you,” groaned Norman.
“I wish we had never come,” sighed Tim, as he bent lower. “Can’t we do anything? Give him some water?”
“Water!” cried Norman, with a mocking laugh. “He’s had enough of that.”
“Brandy?” said Rifle. “There is some in a flask. Father said, take it in case any one is ill.”
“Get it,” said Norman, laconically, and his brother ran to where, not fifty yards away, the saddle-bags were lying just as they had been left early that morning.
The brandy was right at the bottom, but it was found at last, and Rifle hurried with it to the black’s side.
Norman took the flask, unscrewed the top, drew off the cup from the bottom, and held it on one side to pour out a small quantity, but as he held it more and more over not a drop came. The top was ill-fitting, and all had slowly leaked away.