Frank was standing, and the old man was trying to find Winch's wound, in order to prevent his bleeding to death while they were carrying him out, when the report of a rifle sounded, seemingly quite near, and a bullet passed with a swift vehement buzz close by their ears. At the instant Frank felt something like a quick tap or jerk on his arm. He looked, and saw that the strip of red flannel, which betokened the service he was engaged in, and which should have rendered his person sacred from any intentional harm, had been shot away. A hole had been torn in his sleeve also, but his flesh was untouched.
The old drummer looked up quickly.
"Are you hurt?"
"No," said Frank, feeling of his arm while he looked around to discover where the shot came from. "It must have been a spent ball; for, see! it fell there in the water!"—pointing at a pool behind them, the surface of which was still rippling with the plunge of the shot.
Winch gave another groan.
"The wound must be an internal one," said Sinjin, "for he is not bleeding much now."
Frank assisted to lift him, and together they bore him back towards the road. It was a difficult task. Frank had neither the stature nor the strength of a man; but he made up in energy and good will what he lacked in force. Very carefully, very tenderly, through bogs and through thickets, they carried the helpless, heavy weight of the blood-stained volunteer.
"Frank! is it you?" murmured Winch, faintly.
"Yes, Jack!" panted the boy, out of breath with exertion.
"Am I killed?" articulated Jack.