Then a strange fear crept into his numb heart. Suppose he should faint and be found unconscious by either friend or foe! The thought made him dizzy. He must hide. If he were conscious when Morley returned he could come out to meet him, if not—well in that case he were better out of sight. Painfully and slowly he clambered up the embankment and crouched behind a rock hidden among underbrush.
Then he drew forth his hand to examine the wound. One look, and he lay as dead to sight and hearing as the man by the roadside below.
The cutting winds of the March evening swept o’er him. Morley returned, and not seeing his prisoner gave a sneering smile and hurried away. Still, Robert lay among the bushes heeding not.
But at last he revived, and turned vaguely about, a voice from the road fell on his ear. It was not Morley’s voice.
“The fellow’s dead, I tell you. Shot through the breast. It looks like an American’s nasty trick. Morley was to watch this road to-day. I wonder where he is?”
A second voice drawled out: “Morley’s too young to be given much rope, he needs watching. As for those rebels, my Lord Howe is too lenient with them. I’ll shoot everyone at sight from this day on. Are you rested Dick, by Gad! we must hurry on with the news, and bad news it is.”
“I could go on,” replied the first speaker, “though every bone is aching, but look at the horses.”
Shirtliffe peered over the ledge and saw a sorry pair of horses jaded and panting and near Mason’s body stood the riders, travel stained and weary. They were Britishers and had evidently ridden fast and far upon important business.
“While we wait,” said the man called Dick, “let us carry this man behind the bushes since we cannot bury him. I wonder if there is anything on his body to identify him by. Here lend a hand Norton and search the old fellow.”
Robert shuddered.