As soon as Frank heard that some of his company had been wounded, all sense of danger to himself was forgotten, and no remonstrance from his friend the drum-major could prevent his rushing in to assist in bringing them off.
Finding that the boy, whose welfare was so precious to him, could not be restrained, Mr. Sinjin plunged in with him, and kept at his side, scrambling through mud and brush and water, and over logs and roots, in the direction of the firing.
They had not gone far when they met a wounded soldier coming out. His right hand hung mangled and ghastly and bleeding at his side. A slug from a rifle musket had ploughed it through, nearly severing the fingers from the wrist.
"Ellis!" cried Frank—"you hurt?"
Ned swung the disabled and red-dripping member up to view, with a sorry smile.
"Not so bad as might be!" he said, with a rather faint show of gayety. "Jack has got it worse."
"Jack who?"—for there were several Jacks in the company.
"Winch," said Ellis, whilst the old drummer was binding up his hand to stop the blood.
"Is he killed?" asked Frank, with a strange feeling—almost of remorse, remembering his late bitter and vindictive thoughts towards John.
"I don't know. We were both hit by the same ball, I believe. It must have passed through his neck. It came from one side, and we tumbled both together. What I tumbled for, I don't know. It didn't take me long to pick myself up again!"