Part 37 (1/2)

March ran hastily in for a.s.sistance, and was not a little surprised to find d.i.c.k sitting alone by the side of the fire, and so absorbed in the perusal of a little book that he had not noticed his entrance--a very singular and unaccountable piece of absence of mind in one so well trained in the watchful ways of the backwoods.

”Ho! d.i.c.k!” cried the youth.

”What, March--March Marston!” exclaimed the Wild Man, springing up, seizing him by the shoulders, and gazing intently into his face, as if to a.s.sure himself that he was not dreaming.

”Ay, no doubt I'm March Marston; though how you came to find out my name I don't know--”

”Easy enough that, lad, when you leave your mother's Bible behind ye,”

cried d.i.c.k with a wild laugh. ”She must be a good mother that o' yours.

Is she alive yet, boy?”

”That is she, an' well, I trust--”

”An' your father,” interrupted d.i.c.k; ”how's he, lad, eh?”

”I don't know,” said March, frowning; ”he forsook us fourteen years agone; but it's little good talking o' such matters now, when there's a poor fellow dyin' outside.”

”Dyin'?”

”Ay, so it seems to me. I've brought him to see if ye can stop the bleedin', but he's fainted, and I can't lift--”

d.i.c.k waited for no more, but, hastening out, raised Macgregor in his arms, and carried him into the inner cave, where Mary was lying sound asleep on her lowly couch.

”Come, Mary, la.s.s, make way for this poor feller.”

The child leaped up, and, throwing a deerskin round her, stepped aside to allow the wounded man to be placed on her bed. Her eye immediately fell on March, who stood in the entrance, and she ran to him in surprise.

”What's de matter, March?”

”Hush, Mary,” said d.i.c.k in a low voice; ”we'll have to speak soft. Poor Macgregor won't be long for this world, I'm afear'd. Fetch me the box o' things.”

”You know him, then?” whispered March, in surprise.

”Ay, I've often bin to the Mountain Fort and seed him there. See, he's comin' to. Put that torch more behind me, lad. It'll be better for him not to see me.”

As he spoke the wounded man sighed faintly. Opening his eyes, he said, ”Where am I?”

”Speak to him,” whispered d.i.c.k, looking over his shoulder at March, who advanced, and, kneeling at the side of the couch, said--

”You're all right, Mr Macgregor. I've brought you to the hunter's home. He'll dress your wound and take care of you, so make your mind easy. But you'll have to keep quiet. You've lost much blood.”

The fur trader turned round and seemed to fall asleep, while d.i.c.k bound his wound, and then, leaving him to rest, he and March returned to the other cave.

During that night d.i.c.k seemed in an unaccountably excited state.

Sometimes he sat down by the fire and talked with March in an absent manner on all kinds of subjects--his adventures, his intentions, his home at Pine Point; but from his looks it seemed as if his thoughts were otherwise engaged, and occasionally he started up and paced the floor hurriedly, while his brows darkened and his broad chest heaved as though he were struggling with some powerful feeling or pa.s.sion.

”Could it be,” thought March, ”that there was some mysterious connection between d.i.c.k and the wounded fur trader?” Not being able to find a satisfactory reply to the thought, he finally dismissed it, and turned his attentions altogether towards Mary, whose looks of surprise and concern showed that she too was puzzled by the behaviour of her adopted father.

During that night and all the next day the wounded man grew rapidly worse, and March stayed with him, partly because he felt a strong interest in and pity for him, and partly because he did not like to leave to Mary the duty of watching a dying man.