"He's been through some great strain," said the doctor; "and see the marks around his neck."
There was a welt the breadth of one's finger showing plainly on the white skin of George's throat.
"Rest is what he needs. The trouble is with his brain. The wound in his arm is old and healing." The doctor spoke slowly, and placed his ear on George's chest. "He will recover," he said.
After he had made this examination the surgeon had left a sleeping potion, and had ridden home in the early morning light. He had arrived at the Manor House by the Valley Road, but determined to make his way back across the Ridge.
But he had gone only a short distance along the road that led up the hill when his horse stopped and began to blow, much in the manner of a startled deer, his ears pricked forward, and his haunches lowered and quivering.
The doctor looked ahead, and saw something in the bushes. But not a step nearer could he urge his steed. So he slipped from the saddle, and dragging the reins over the trembling horse's head, took a stride to one side of the road.
There lay the body of a man with arms outstretched and the face turned upwards. He had on a pair of fringed buckskin leggings and an old soldier coat, green with red facings. He was dead.
The doctor stooped closer to examine, and an exclamation broke from his lips. The man had been scalped skilfully! It was years since such a thing had occurred in that part of the country.
There was something familiar in the drawn features, and the doctor, twisting himself so as to obtain a better look, uttered something beneath his breath.
"By Homer's beard!" he said, "it's Cloud, the renegade!"