A moment served to bring Morgan to the man’s side.
The wounded one looked up, and, with a groan of despair, shrunk from what he supposed an Indian.
“Major Runnion!” ejaculated the spy, recognizing the frightened face upturned to him.
“Yes, and you?”
“Mark Morgan.”
“Wayne’s spy?”
“Yes; but how came you here? My boat!” as his eyes fell upon the canoe, poorly moored to a maple root. “No, you need not speak. I can read all now. St. Pierre shot not to the death. You fell into the water, accidentally found my boat, and came hither.”
“Yes—to die,” groaned the major. “Hark! Oh, God, my foes, and yours too, are hounding us on to the dread end.”
A fearful pallor overspread the Briton’s face, as the report of a rifle smote the air.
“Courage!” cried Mark Morgan, stooping over the man—his enemy. “Lie perfectly still. I will return directly, and then we’ll leave the island; we’ll baffle them at last.”