"I am sick, sore and wounded."
"Wounded!" cried Charles, "and sick, too!"
"Cannot rise! Prythee, what ails you, friend?"
His sharp young eyes were enabled to penetrate the deepening shades of twilight, and he saw a ghastly pallor overspreading the man's face, who, pressing his hand upon his side, gave vent to gasps of keen agony. His left side was stained with blood.
"You are wounded!" Charles Stevens at last declared. "Pray, how came it about?"
"I was fired upon by an unseen foe, for what cause I know not, as, being a stranger in these parts, I have had no quarrel."
"Come, let me help you to rise."
"No, it is useless. I am tired and too faint to go further. Let me lie here. I will soon be dead, and all this agony will be over."
At this, the cheerful mind of Charles Stevens asserted itself by inspiring hope in the heart of the fainting stranger.