The old man passed his arm around the stranger, to raise him from his recumbent position.  The motion must have occasioned pain, for a low groan was heard.  But it, at least, attested the presence of life, and there was consolation in even those sad sounds.  With all the tenderness of a mother he raised the wounded man in his arms, and endeavored to discover the place and character of the wound, in order to staunch, if possible, the bleeding.  But it was soon apparent that all such attempts would be useless, and only tend to aggravate the pain without leading to any desirable result, so long as the clothing was allowed to remain on.  The better course seemed to be to remove him immediately to the hut.  As gently, therefore, as possible, the old man bore him to the boat, and deposited him upon its bottom.  A few strokes of the paddle sent it back again to the island, and soon the wounded stranger was lying on a rude, but welcome bed.  Here the first thing to be done was to divest him of his coat and such other clothing as hid the wound.  Having performed this duty, which was done by cutting off the coat and tearing the under garments, the next care of the old man was, in the best manner in his power, to apply bandages to stop the blood, which trickled from the right side and shoulder.  This was done with no little skill, as by one who did not then see a gun-shot wound for the first time.  The process was accompanied by an occasional groan, when the bandages pressed the wounded parts too closely, which the sufferer seemed to try to suppress, appearing, at the same time, to endeavor to express his thanks, by a smile and the soft glances of his eyes.  Any attempt at exertion was instantly repressed by his kind nurse, who never failed, when it occurred, to enjoin quiet.

“Thou art weak from loss of blood, young man,” he said, “but I am mistaken if there is much danger.  Yet, a narrow escape hast thou had.  Be thankful to that Providence, by whom the hairs of thy head are all numbered, and who permitteth not a sparrow to fall without notice to the ground, for so directing the shot that they only tore the outer flesh, without reaching a vital part.  And so, hereafter, when the evils of life shall assail thee, may they penetrate no deeper than the surface, nor affect thy immortal soul.”

Here the young man made a motion, as if about to speak, but he was interrupted by the other.

“Nay,” said the Recluse, “thou must obey me for thy own good, and I have forbid all speech.  It will start the blood, and weaken thee still more.  Compose thyself, now, while I leave thee but for an instant, to discover, if I can, a boat going to Hillsdale.”

We will avail ourselves of the absence of the Recluse to describe the interior of the hut and its occupant.  And to begin with the latter—­he was a dark-haired youth, of twenty-one or two years of age, the natural paleness of whose complexion was enhanced as well by the raven color of his hair as by the loss of blood.  His features were quite regular, and surmounted by a brow rather high than broad.  The eyes were the most remarkable, and commanded instant attention.  They were large, black and flashing, and, in spite of the injunctions of the old man, wide open and roving round the apartment.  By the manner in which he had been addressed, it was evident he was unknown.