Chapter Twenty Three.
The Wounded Fur Trader.
When they reached the entrance to the cavern, March and his companion dismounted; but the latter was so weak from loss of blood that he stumbled at the foot of the track, and fell to the earth insensible.
March ran hastily in for assistance, and was not a little surprised to find Dick sitting alone by the side of the fire, and so absorbed in the perusal of a little book that he had not noticed his entrance—a very singular and unaccountable piece of absence of mind in one so well trained in the watchful ways of the backwoods.
“Ho! Dick!” cried the youth.
“What, March—March Marston!” exclaimed the Wild Man, springing up, seizing him by the shoulders, and gazing intently into his face, as if to assure himself that he was not dreaming.
“Ay, no doubt I’m March Marston; though how you came to find out my name I don’t know—”
“Easy enough that, lad, when you leave your mother’s Bible behind ye,” cried Dick with a wild laugh. “She must be a good mother that o’ yours. Is she alive yet, boy?”
“That is she, an’ well, I trust—”