“Yes, for half a mile farther into the fields and woods.”
“No, no, not there; but down along the fence. He knew every inch of this ground. If he were wounded here, he would at once try to reach our house. Search down along the fence. I—I cannot go.”
Renmark walked along the fence, peering into the dark corners made by the zigzag of the rails; and he knew, without looking back, that Margaret, with feminine inconsistency, was following him. Suddenly she darted past him, and flung herself down in the long grass, wailing out a cry that cut Renmark like a knife.
The boy lay with his face in the grass, and his outstretched hand grasping the lower rail of the fence. He had dragged himself this far, and reached an insurmountable obstacle.
Renmark drew the weeping girl gently away, and rapidly ran his hand over the prostrate lad. He quickly opened his tunic, and a thrill of joy passed over him as he felt the faint beating of the heart.
“He is alive!” he cried. “He will get well, Margaret.” A statement somewhat premature to make on so hasty an examination.
He rose, expecting a look of gratitude from the girl he loved. He was amazed to see her eyes almost luminous in the darkness, blazing with wrath.
“When did you know he was with the volunteers?”
“This morning—early,” said the professor, taken aback.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”