Crown and Sceptre Part 73

"Are you wounded?"

"Water--for Heaven's sake, water!"

Fred started up.

Water? How could he get water?

The lake was close at hand, if he could reach it unseen, for he shrank from calling help, which meant condemning the poor fellow to a prisoner's life as soon as he grew better. So, forcing his way along as cautiously as he could, he contrived to reach one of the trees whose boughs overhung the lake, and taking advantage of the shelter, he lay down upon his chest, grasped a stout hazel, lowered himself to where he could reach the surface, where he took off his steel morion, dipped it full, and rose carefully to bear the refreshing fluid to the suffering man.

It was not an easy task, for the undergrowth seemed to be more tangled than ever; but by stepping cautiously, he managed to bear almost every drop, and kneeling down, he gave the poor fellow a little at a time, an appealing look in the sufferer's eyes seeming to ask for more and more.

"Can you speak, Nat?" Fred said at last, as the man lay back with his eyes closed, and without opening them he softly bent his head.

"Are you wounded?"

"Yes; badly," came in a faint whisper.

"You were hurt at the last encounter?"

"Yes, and crawled here. Water!"

Fred administered more, every drop seeming delicious to the fevered lips of the wounded man.

Just then Fred remembered that he had a little bread in the wallet at his side; and breaking it up, he soaked a small piece in the water, and placed it between poor Nat's lips.

This was eaten, and a few more sc.r.a.ps, the refreshment seeming to revive the sufferer wonderfully, and he looked up now in Fred's eyes, as he whispered faintly--

"I was dying of thirst. I hid here--after the fight--and used to crawl at night to my old garden for food. Then I grew too weak. Master Fred, it would have been all over, if you had not come."

"Thank Heaven! I heard you," said Fred, giving the poor fellow a few more sc.r.a.ps of the moistened bread till he signed to him to cease, and then he looked up in his benefactor's face with a faint smile on his parched and cracked lips.

"Oughtn't you to kill me, Master Fred?" he whispered.

"Oh, Nat, don't talk like that, my lad! I can't forget the past."

"Nor can I, Master Fred. But tell me, lad, Master Scarlett? Don't say he's dead."

"No, no; I believe he's alive and well," cried Fred, eagerly. And he saw the poor fellow close his eyes and lie back, with his lips moving as if he were in prayer.

But he opened them again, and looked round wildly, as if he were slightly delirious, but as his eyes rested on Fred's face he grew calm, his lips parted, and he looked earnestly at him who was playing the good Samaritan where he lay.

"Ah, that seems to put life in me!" he sighed; "but you'll get in trouble, Master Fred, for helping such a one as me. We're enemies, don't you see?"

"Wounded men cease to be enemies, Nat," said Fred, bluntly, "so don't talk about that. You were separated from your master?"

"Yes, sir, with a sword. I don't know whose it was; but it went through my shoulder and laid open my head."

"Ah, well, don't talk. Drink a little more water, and I'll go and bring some men with a litter to fetch you away, and you shall be tended carefully; rest a.s.sured of that."

"No, no, Master Fred; let me bide here. How do I know but what Master Scar will come looking for me with some of our lads. I've been expecting them every minute, ever since I crawled in among the bushes; but it seemed a long time, and no one came, and no one--"

He ceased speaking, and lay back fainting.

Fred sprinkled and bathed his face for a few minutes, and then becoming alarmed at the poor fellow's long-continued swooning, he was about to get up and run for help, when Nat slowly opened his eyes again and his lips moved.

"Where's that Samson?" he whispered faintly.

"With my regiment."

"Not hurt badly like me, is he, Master Fred?"

"No; he has escaped wonderfully."

"I'm glad of that, sir, because I shouldn't like for anybody else to give him his lesson. That's to be my job, as soon as I get better. I'm going to take him in hand, Master Fred, and weed him. He's full o'

rubbish, and I'm going to make him a better man. A villain! fighting again his own brother."

"There, Nat, drink a little more water, and eat some of this cake, and then I'll go and get help to have you carried up to camp."

"What? A prisoner? No, Master Fred. Sooner die where I am, than let that Samson see me like this, and jump upon me."

"Nonsense! Samson's a good fellow at heart, and as soon as he sees you in trouble, he'll be only too glad to help you."

"Not he, sir; he's my born enemy."

"He's your brother, and I shall send him, for one, to fetch you."

"No, Master Fred, don't; don't, pray don't, sir. Let me lie here. I don't feel the cold and wet much, and if you'd come once a day and bring me a bit o' bread and a drop o' water, I shall soon get well. Don't have me made a prisoner, sir."

"But I can't leave you helpless, and--"

He was about to add dying, but he checked himself.

"And free, Master Fred? Why not? You let me alone, sir. You've saved me this time, for I was going to die to-night. Now I'm going to live.

Rather strange for enemies, sir, isn't it? Hark!"

Fred was already listening to a trumpet call, and springing to his feet, he prepared to go.

"I shall send a litter for you to be borne up to camp," he said.

"No, Master Fred, please. I'm a poor helpless thing now, not strong enough to lift a spade, but if you leave me the rest of that bread, I shall do; and if you can come and look at me once or twice, that will be all I shall want. But, Heaven bless you, sir! don't have me made a prisoner."

"Well, Nat, I shall leave you to-night, as it's going to be fine. But let me look at your wounds."

"No, sir, let them bide. I did all I could to them. Come back to-morrow, sir, and if I ain't better then, you may talk of sending me away a prisoner, with my brother Samson to stand and sneer because I am so weak."

A second trumpet call rang out, and, unable to stay longer, Fred hurried back into the open, and made his way over to the little camp, asking himself whether he had not better disregard the poor wounded man's prayers, and have him fetched out, always coming back to the conclusion that he would at all events leave him for another day, when he would take him an ample store of provision, if possible, and decide then as to his future course.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.