Paul hurt one of his legs by the fall, but he had no thought for himself as he bent over the horse.
"Heaven help us!" was his fervent prayer, for in that one brief glance he could tell that poor Falcon was dying, and he knew that not long would elapse before his pursuers reached him.
"What is it, old fellow? Good Falcon—good!"
Once more Falcon responded to the call; it made desperate efforts to rise; but almost immediately slackened. Paul's hand went to its neck. It was bathed in perspiration and foam. What had happened to it? In the uncertain light it was impossible to tell. Had it injured a foot or leg? All at once Paul recalled the way in which the man had lunged at the horse at the moment of their escape. He must have injured it in some way.
CHAPTER III
THE CRY OF THE PSALMIST
Yes; poor Falcon was dying. A crimson stream was running from a wound in its flank, and Paul knew that the horse had not many minutes to live.
"The scoundrel!" he said to himself between his clenched teeth, as he thought of the man who had wrought this cruel deed. Paul was one of those brave lads who would never wittingly have done an act of cruelty, least of all to one of God's dumb creatures. It touched him to the quick to see the poor horse dying. He knelt by its side, and his hand went caressingly over it. Falcon turned to him with such a look of pathos in its eyes that a big lump rose in the boy's throat, as though he were choking.
"I can do nothing for you, old fellow. I wish I could!"