"None of any consequence, Fronklyn; but my head aches," answered Deck. "Where do I happen to be just now?"
"Don't you remember what took place an hour ago, or more?"
"I have an idea that I was in a fight; but it all came to an end very suddenly," replied Deck, raising his head, and then sitting up on the ground.
"You were in a sharp fight, and you have lain here like a log for half an hour or more. I was afraid that you had been killed; but I thank God with all my heart and soul that you are still living," said Fronklyn very devoutly.
"Some of it comes back to me now," said the patient, as he looked about him as if to ascertain where he was; for his companion had not informed him on this point. "I had just struck down a trooper with my sabre when I heard the tramp of a horse behind me. I was about to wheel so as to face him, when I felt a blow on my head, and I can remember nothing more."
"You fell on the field, as I had before you."
"Are you wounded, Fronklyn?"
"I am slightly; and my case seems to be something like yours, though it was a pistol-ball that brought me down. I saw the trooper aim a great horse-pistol that might have been a hundred years old, and I have no doubt that the bullet was as big as they fire in those ancient flint-lock muskets. It stunned me for the moment; but I was on my feet at once, and saw you fall," the sergeant explained.
"Are you much hurt, Fronklyn?" asked Deck.
"Only a flesh-wound that will heal up in a week, or less. When I can get at my knapsack I will put a plaster on it."