oor chap!" said the Sergeant softly; "he's got it. Well, he died like
a brave man. Came up here, I s'pose, for shelter."

"There's another over yonder," I said excitedly, for about fifty yards
away from where we were grouped, and high above us, the baboons were
leaping about and chattering more than ever.

"Shouldn't wonder," said the Sergeant; "and he aren't dead. Trying to
scare those ugly little beggars away."

"I'll soon see," I said; and as I urged Sandho on, the shrinking beast
cautiously picked his way past the dead group, and we soon got up to a
narrow rift full of bushes, the path among the rocks running right up to
the highest point, towards which the baboons began to retire now,
chattering away, but keeping a keen watch on our proceedings.

"Another dead horse, Sergeant," I shouted back.

"Never mind the horse," cried Briggs. "Be ready, and shoot the wounded
man down at sight if he doesn't throw up his hands. 'Ware treachery."

I pressed on into the gully, at whose entrance the second dead horse
lay, and the next minute, as Sandho forced the bushes apart with his
breast, I saw marks of blood on a stone just beneath where the apes had
been chattering in their excitement; and then I drew rein and felt
completely paralysed, for a faint voice, whose tones were unmistakable,
cried:

"Help! Wather, for the love of Heaven!"

CHAPTER THIRTY.

BRIGGS'S IRISH LION.

"Why, it's an Irish lion!" cried the Sergeant, who was now close behind
me.

I was too much surprised to say anything then; but I felt afterwards
that I might have said, "Irish jackal! The Irish lions are quite
different." But somehow the sight of the badly-wounded man disarmed me,
and I dismounted to part the bushes and kneel down beside where my enemy
lay back with his legs beneath the neck and shoulders of his dead horse,
blood-smeared and ghastly, as he gazed wildly in my face.

"Wather!" he said pitifully. "I am a dead man."

"Are you, now, Pat?" cried the Sergeant, in mocking imitation of the
poor wretch's accent and high-pitched intonation.

"Don't be a brute, Sergeant," I said angrily as I opened my water-bottle
and held it to the man's lips. "Can't you see he's badly hurt?"

"Serve him right," growled the Sergeant angrily. "What business has he
fighting against the soldiers of the Queen? Ugh! he don't deserve help;
he ought to be stood up and shot for a traitor."

"Be quiet!" I said angrily as I held the bottle,