But as he drew it towards him something dropped on the ground. Stooping down to see what it was, he discovered that it was a sharp, thick bowie-knife.
“It is robbery. He has been attacked,” cried Dallas; and once more he devoted himself to trying to restore the sufferer—chafing his cold limbs, bathing his temples with spirits, drawing him nearer the fire, and at last waiting in despair for the result, while feeling perfectly unable to fit the pieces of the puzzle so as to get a solution satisfactory in all points.
“Poor old Bel!” he said to himself; “he seems always to get the worst of it; but when I told him so he only laughed, and said it was I.”
He was in agony as to what he should do.
One moment he was for going to fetch help; the next he gave it up, dreading to leave his cousin again.
By degrees, though, the poor fellow began to come to as the warmth pervaded him; and at last, to Dallas’s great delight, he opened his eyes, stared at him wildly, and then looked round wonderingly till his eyes lit upon the opening, over which his cousin had pegged a rug.
He started violently then, and the memory of all that had taken place came back.
Clapping his hand to his throat, he wrenched his head round so that he could look in the direction of the bed.
“The gold—the bag of gold!” he whispered.
“Gone, old fellow; but never mind that, so long as you are alive. Try and drink this.”