Part 41 (2/2)

”Oh!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Fred, as he drew nearer and caught sight of the man's face. ”What a horrible wound! Samson, lad, we thought you a prisoner, or dead.”

”I arn't a prisoner, because I'm here,” grumbled Samson; ”and I arn't dead yet, thank ye, Master Fred.”

”But your wound. Come on to the surgeon at once.”

”My wound, sir?”

”Yes. Your face looks terrible. How did you manage to get here?”

”Face looks terrible--manage to get here! I'll tell you, sir. A big fellow with a broad grey hat and feathers, and all long hair and ragged lace, spurred at me, and, if I hadn't been tidy sharpish, he'd have rode me down. Hit at me, too, he did, with his sword, and caught me on the shoulder, but it didn't cut through the leather; and, 'fore he could get another cut at me, I give him a wipe on the head as made him rise up in his sterrups and hit at me with his fist.”

”His fist, Samson?”

”Yes, sir. There was his sword in it, of course, and the pommel hit me right on the nose; and before I could get over it, he was off along with the rest, full gallop, and I was sitting on the ground, thinking about my mother and what a mess I was in, and my horse looking as if he was ashamed of me, as I was of myself. I wonder he didn't gallop off, too; but I s'pose he thought he wouldn't get a better master.”

”But your face, Samson? It looks horrid.”

”Well, I can't help that, Master Fred, can I? Didn't make my own face.

Good enough to come and fight with.”

”Come along with me to the surgeon.”

”What, and leave my horse? Not I, sir.”

”A man's wounds are of more consequence than a horse.”

”Who says so? I think a mortal deal more o' my horse than I do o' my wounds. 'Sides I arn't got no wounds.”

”You have, and don't know it. You have quite a mask of blood on your face. It is hideous.”

”Yah! that's nothing. It's my nose. It always was a one to bleed.

Whenever that brother o' mine, who went to grief and soldiering, used to make me smell his fist, my nose always bled, and his fist was quite as hard as that hard-riding R'y'list chap's. Called me a Roundhead dog, too, he did, as he hit me. If I'd caught him, I'd ha' rounded his head for him.”

”Yes, yes, of course, Samson; but come down to the stream, and bathe your face. Your horse is grazing now.”

”You're getting too vain and partic'lar, Master Fred,” grumbled Samson.

”You're thinking of looking nice, like the R'y'lists, when you ought to be proud of a little blood shed in the good cause.”

”I am proud and ready too, Samson; but come and wash your face.”

”I'll come,” grumbled Samson; ”and I never kears about was.h.i.+ng myself now. Never a drop o' hot water, no towels, no soap, and no well, and no buckets. Once a week seems quite enough, specially as you has to wait till you get dry.”

By a little persuasion, Samson was led to the stream, where he knelt down and bathed his face, looking up to his master from time to time to ask if that was better, the final result being that, beyond a little swelling on one side, Samson's nose was none the worse for the encounter.

”There!” he cried at last; ”I suppose that will do, sir.”

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