I could see no pursuer; but still, as he came on, his
arms waved, and were waving yet when a bush on the chine above him
threw out a little puff of grey smoke. Toppling headlong into the
bushes he was lost to me even before the report rang on my ears
across the hollow.
I dropped on my knees for a grip on the creepers, swung myself down
the face of the crag, and within ten seconds was lost in the
_macchia_ again, fighting my way through it to the spot where Nat
lay. Wherever the scrub parted and allowed me a glimpse I kept my
eye on the bush above the chine; and so, with torn clothes and face
and hands bleeding, crossed the dip, mounted the slope and emerged
upon a ferny hollow ringed about on three sides with the _macchia_.
There face-downward in the fern lay Nat, shot through the lungs.
I lifted him against one knee. His eyelids flickered and his lips
moved to speak, but a rush of blood choked him. Still resting him
against my knee, I felt behind me for my musket. The flint was gone
from the lock, dislodged no doubt by a blow against the crags.
With one hand I groped on the ground for a stone to replace it.
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