Merciful Heaven! his heart still beat,—­so faintly, indeed, that I could barely note it with my ear at his chest.  But life was surely there, and with a hasty glance about to assure me that I was unobserved, I ran to the lake shore.  I returned with hat full of water, with which I thoroughly drenched him, rubbing his numbed hands fiercely, and thumping his chest until at last the closed eyes partially opened, and he looked up into my anxious face, gasping painfully for breath.  His lips moved as I lifted his head in my arms; and I bent lower, not certain but he was dying and had some last message he would whisper in my ear.

“Wayland,” he faltered feebly, “is this you?  Lord, how my head aches!  Send Sam to me with the hand-mirror and the perfumed soap.”

“Hush!” I answered, almost angry at his flippant utterance.  “Sam is no doubt dead, and you and I alone are spared of all the company.  Do you suffer greatly?  Think you it would be possible to walk?”

“I have much pain here in the side,” he said slowly, “and am yet weak from loss of blood.  All dead, you say?  Is Toinette dead?”

“I know not, but I have not found her body among the others, and believe her to be a prisoner to the savages.  But, come, De Croix,” I urged, anxiously, “we run great risk loitering here; there is but one safe spot for us until after dark,—­yonder, crouched in the waters of the lake.  The Indians may return at any moment to complete their foul work; and for us to be found alive means torture,—­most likely the stake,—­and will remove the last hope for Mademoiselle.  Think you it can be made if you lean hard on me?”

“Sacre! ’t will not be because I do not try, Master Wayland,” he answered, his voice stronger now that he could breathe more freely, and with much of his old audacity returned.  “Help me to make the start, friend, for every joint in my body seems rusty.”

His face was white and drawn from agony, and he pressed one hand upon his side, while perspiration stood in beads upon his forehead.  But no moan came from his set lips; and when he rested a moment on his knees, looking about him upon the dead, a look of grim approval swept into his eyes.

“Saint Guise, Wayland,” he said soberly, “’t was a master fight, and the savages had it not all their own way!”

It made me sick to hear such boasting amidst the horror that yet overwhelmed me, and I drew the fellow up to his feet with but little tenderness.

“God knows ’t is sad enough!” I answered, shortly.  “Come, there are parties of Indians already straying this way from the Fort yonder, and it behooves us to get in hiding.”

He made the distance between us and the water with far less difficulty than I had expected, and with a better use of his limbs at each step.  In spite of vigorous protest on his part, I forced him out from the shore until the water entirely covered us, save only our faces; and there we waited for the merciful coming of the night.