"Let us push on then," the Canadian said, as he slacked his rein, and his horse started with the speed of lightning.
The others followed him, and they soon reached the sumach; the man had not stirred. The count and the adventurer dismounted, and walked up to the body, which still lay motionless, and bent over it.
"It is a white man," said the Canadian.
"Yes," the count added, after a moment of attentive examination; "I know him. His name is Don Melchior. I saw him at the Hacienda del Barrio during my last visit. Don Aníbal de Saldibar is sincerely attached to him. How is it that he is here, and in such a hapless condition?"
"That is a question which himself alone could answer, and for the moment I fear that it is impossible for him to do so. Let us first make sure whether he be dead or alive."
Like all the wood rangers, who, through the chances of their adventurous life, run a risk of being wounded at any moment, the Canadian, though no great doctor, possessed some practical knowledge of medicine, or, to speak more correctly, of surgery. He bent over the young man, raised him with one hand, and held him up in a sitting position, while he held to his mouth the bright blade of his knife. A moment later he looked at it; it was slightly tarnished.
"Thank heaven!" he said, "He is not dead, though not much better off; he has fainted."
"The poor boy appears to me very ill," the count remarked, sorrowfully.
"That is true; but he is young and strong, and so long as the soul clings to the body there is a chance."
"How can we help him? We must not leave him in this pitiable state."