“An’ your father,” interrupted Dick; “how’s he, lad, eh?”
“I don’t know,” said March, frowning; “he forsook us fourteen years agone; but it’s little good talking o’ such matters now, when there’s a poor fellow dyin’ outside.”
“Dyin’?”
“Ay, so it seems to me. I’ve brought him to see if ye can stop the bleedin’, but he’s fainted, and I can’t lift—”
Dick waited for no more, but, hastening out, raised Macgregor in his arms, and carried him into the inner cave, where Mary was lying sound asleep on her lowly couch.
“Come, Mary, lass, make way for this poor feller.”
The child leaped up, and, throwing a deerskin round her, stepped aside to allow the wounded man to be placed on her bed. Her eye immediately fell on March, who stood in the entrance, and she ran to him in surprise.
“What’s de matter, March?”
“Hush, Mary,” said Dick in a low voice; “we’ll have to speak soft. Poor Macgregor won’t be long for this world, I’m afear’d. Fetch me the box o’ things.”
“You know him, then?” whispered March, in surprise.