He turned and stirred up the waning camp-fire, and seating himself upon the ground glanced at the paper. A groan escaped his lips as he did so, and the paper dropped from his hand, and falling into the fire was consumed in an instant, while the colonel’s hands dropped to his knees and his eyes became fixed upon the fire.
“What did he write, uncle?” asked Frank.
There was no response to his question.
Frank repeated it. Still no reply.
“The ranger has thrown the colonel’s mind into a quandary,” said young Lyman.
“Like the red naygur did yours,” said Flick O’Flynn.
“How is it, colonel?” asked Rodman.
The colonel was still silent. Frank Armond advanced and laid his hand upon his uncle’s shoulder, but he started back with a thrill of horror. The limbs of the colonel were rigid as death; his eyes were still fixed upon the fire with a cold, glassy, vacant stare. His lips stood slightly apart and his features were ghastly as the dead’s.
“Uncle! uncle!” exclaimed Frank, shaking him violently, “what ails you? Come, rouse up—great God, what can it mean, Rodman?”
The young doctor was bending over the colonel, his fingers resting upon the old man’s pulse.