He sat down on a stone by the wayside. He leaned his chin on his hands and stared at Rodney. Was that Rodney? If the man were dead, why, then it was not anybody; it was—oh, what was it?
And how could Rodney, so full of life and health and strength, be there so helpless?
A great many strange and solemn thoughts came to the boy's mind as he sat there.
And all the time he was listening for wheels, hoping that a carriage would come along.
The mosquitoes buzzed about his face and stung him unheeded.
He noticed that Rodney wore corduroys and leather leggings, and that a whip lay on the ground a few yards off. Leander went and picked up the whip, which he knew very well.
But how strange even the whip seemed! So Rodney had been riding; and he had come home sooner than he had been expected.
If he should be really dead, Leander supposed that his sister would mourn herself to death. He supposed his sister was in love with this long, still figure of a man.
All at once the little watcher felt the tears springing up and blinding him. He rubbed his fists into his eyes, but the tears would come. It was while he was doing this that he thought he heard a sound; as he could not distinguish what the sound was, he dared not take his hands from his face, and he dared not move.
Was it really a groan?