“What’s the matter? Are you all right? Have they hurt you?” he asked, as he stooped over and caught the shoulders of the victim of the two fleeing figures.
At that instant there were two more pistol-shots, and a bullet hit the ground beside Orlando. Then he saw dimly the face of the man whom he was helping to his feet.
“Mazarine! Good Lord-Mazarine!” he said in an anxious voice. “What have they done to you?”
“Nothing—I’m all right. The dogs, the rogues, the thieves—but they didn’t get it! It was in the pockets of my shirt.” The old man was almost hysterical. “You just come in time, Mr. Guise. You frightened ‘em off. They’d have found it, if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Found what?” asked Orlando, as he helped the old man towards the camp-fire, himself in pain, and a dizziness coming over him.
“Found your six thousand dollars that Burlingame paid me to-day,” gasped the old man, spasmodically; “but it’s here-it’s here!” He caught at his breast with devouring greed.
Somehow the agitated joy of the old man revolted Orlando. He had a sudden rush of repulsion; but he fought it down.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Are you all right?” Somehow the sound of his own voice was very weak. “Yes, I’m all right,” Mazarine said, and he called to his horse near by.
The horse did not stir, and the old man, whose breath came almost normally now, moved over and caught its bridle.
In a dazed kind of way, and with growing unsteadiness, Orlando walked towards the camp-fire. He was leaning against his horse, and opening his coat and waistcoat to find the wound in his side and staunch it with the kerchief from his neck, when Mazarine came up.