e in his ears, and
slowly and painfully everything seemed to pass away till all was dark
once more.

Meanwhile, Nat Dee had crept close to his brother's head, and, kneeling
in the straw, allowed a grin to overspread his rustic countenance.

"You've got it, then, this time?" he whispered.

Samson had "got it this time," indeed, for his bandages wanted changing,
and his wounds were hot and painful; but, in spite of his anguish, he
echoed, so to speak--visibly echoed his brother's broad grin, and
acknowledged the fact, fully resolved that, as Nat had come to triumph
over him, he should be disappointed.

"Yes," he said in a cheerful whisper; "I've got it this time, Natty."

"Don't you feel ashamed of yourself?"

"Not a bit."

"Then you ought to. Suppose your poor mother saw you now, what do you
think she would say?"

"Say? Say, `Get your ugly great carcase out of the way, and let poor
Samson have room to breathe.'"

"Nay, she would not; she'd say, `Here's my wicked young black sheep as
leaped out of the fold to go among the wolves, properly punished, and
I'm very glad of it.'"

"Well, then, I'm very glad she isn't here to listen to her ugly son Nat
telling such a pack of lies."

"Nay, it's the truth."

"Not it," said Samson, cheerily. "My poor old mother couldn't say such
words as that. She'd more likely say, `If I didn't know you two boys
was my twins, I should say that Nat belonged to some one else, and was
picked up by accident.'"

"Nay, she wouldn't; she'd be ashamed of you."

"Never was yet, Nat; and if I wasn't lying here too weak and worn-out to
move, I'd get up and punch your ugly head, Nat, till you could see
better, and make you feel sorry for saying such wicked things about my
poor old mother."

"She's my mother as much as she is yours."

"Yes, poor old soul; and sick and sorry she is to have such a son as
you."

"Nay, it's sick and sorry she is to have a son as deserts his king, and
goes robbing and murdering all over the country with a pack of ruffians
scraped from everywhere."

"No, I didn't; I never desarted no king. I wasn't the king's servant,
lad."

"Yes, you was."

"Not I, Natty. I was master's servant, and he says, `Will you come and
fight for me, Samson,' he says, `against oppression?' `'Course I will,
master,' I says. `And handle a sword instead of a spade,' he says.
`You give me hold of one, master,' I says, `and I'll show you.' That's
how it was, Natty."

"Your