All this time the dog had acted in a most peculiar manner, and if Alfred had not been so intent on the man he would have noticed the animal’s odd maneuvers.  He ran to and fro on the sandy beach; he scratched up the sand and pebbles, sending them flying in the air; he made short, furious dashes; he jumped, whirled, and, at last, crawled close to the motionless figure and licked its hand.

Clarke realized that he would not be able to carry the inanimate figure, so he hurriedly put on his clothes and set out on a run for Colonel Zane’s house.  The first person whom he saw was the old negro slave, who was brushing one of the Colonel’s horses.

Sam was deliberate and took his time about everything.  He slowly looked up and surveyed Clarke with his rolling eyes.  He did not recognize in him any one he had ever seen before, and being of a sullen and taciturn nature, especially with strangers, he seemed in no hurry to give the desired information as to Colonel Zane’s whereabouts.

“Don’t stare at me that way, you damn nigger,” said Clarke, who was used to being obeyed by negroes.  “Quick, you idiot.  Where is the Colonel?”

At that moment Colonel Zane came out of the barn and started to speak, when Clarke interrupted him.

“Colonel, I have just pulled a man out of the river who says his name is Zane, or if he did not mean that, he knows you, for he surely said ‘Zane.’”

“What!” ejaculated the Colonel, letting his pipe fall from his mouth.

Clarke related the circumstances in a few hurried words.  Calling Sam they ran quickly down to the river, where they found the prostrate figure as Clarke had left it, the dog still crouched close by.

“My God!  It is Isaac!” exclaimed Colonel Zane, when he saw the white face.  “Poor boy, he looks as if he were dead.  Are you sure he spoke?  Of course he must have spoken for you could not have known.  Yes, his heart is still beating.”

Colonel Zane raised his head from the unconscious man’s breast, where he had laid it to listen for the beating heart.

“Clarke, God bless you for saving him,” said he fervently.  “It shall never be forgotten.  He is alive, and, I believe, only exhausted, for that wound amounts to little.  Let us hurry.”

“I did not save him.  It was the dog,” Alfred made haste to answer.

They carried the dripping form to the house, where the door was opened by Mrs. Zane.

“Oh, dear, another poor man,” she said, pityingly.  Then, as she saw his face, “Great Heavens, it is Isaac!  Oh! don’t say he is dead!”

“Yes, it is Isaac, and he is worth any number of dead men yet,” said Colonel Zane, as they laid the insensible man on the couch.  “Bessie, there is work here for you.  He has been shot.”

“Is there any other wound beside this one in his arm?” asked Mrs. Zane, examining it.

“I do not think so, and that injury is not serious.  It is lose of blood, exposure and starvation.  Clarke, will you please run over to Captain Boggs and tell Betty to hurry home!  Sam, you get a blanket and warm it by the fire.  That’s right, Bessie, bring the whiskey,” and Colonel Zane went on giving orders.