n a
little ravine at whose lower edge the friendly forest recommenced. That
was his fatal mistake. The moment he took to the open there was a rattle
of rifles from the hill above, and Rolf fell on his face as dead.

It was after noontide when he fell; he must have lain unconscious for
an hour; when he came to himself he was lying still in that hollow,
absolutely alone. The red-coats doubtless had continued their flight
with the Yankee boys behind them. His face was covered with blood. His
coat was torn and bloody; his trousers showed a ragged rent that was
reddened and sopping. His head was aching, and in his leg was the pain
of a cripplement. He knew it as soon as he tried to move; his right leg
was shattered below the knee. The other shots had grazed his arm and
head; the latter had stunned him for a time, but did no deeper damage.

He lay still for a long time, in hopes that some of his friends
might come. He tried to raise his voice, but had no strength. Then he
remembered the smoke signal that had saved him when he was lost in the
woods. In spite of his wounded arm, he got out his flint and steel, and
prepared to make a fire. But all the small wood he could reach was wet
with recent rains. An old pine stump was on the bank not far away; he
might cut kindling-wood from that to start his fire, and he reached for
his knife. Alas! its case was empty. Had Rolf been four years younger,
he might have broken down and wept at this. It did seem such an
unnecessary accumulation of disasters. Without gun or knife, how was he
to call his friends?

He straightened his mangled limb in the position of least pain and lay
for a while. The September sun fell on his back and warmed him. He was
parched with thirst, but only thirty yards away was a little rill. With
a long and fearful crawling on his breast, he dragged himself to the
stream and drank till he could drink no more, then rested, washed his
head and hands, 'and tried to crawl again to the warm place. But the sun
had dropped behind the river bank, the little ravine was in shadow, and
the chill of the grave was on the young man's pain-racked frame.

Shadows crossed his brain, among them Si Sylvanne with his quaint
sayings, and one above all was clear:

"Trouble is only sent to make ye do yer best. When ye hev done yer best,
keep calm and wait. Things is comin' all right." Yes, that was what he
said, and the mockery of it hurt him now.

The sunset slowly ended; the night