Henry turned him
over until the cold reviving rain fell full upon his face, and then,
raising himself again, he listened intently. The battle was still moving
on to the southward, but very slowly, and stray warriors might yet pass
and see them. The tie of friendship is strong, and as he had come to
save Paul and as he had found him too, he did not mean to be stopped
now.
He stooped down and chafed the wounded youth's wrists and temples, while
the rain with its vivifying touch still drove upon his face. Paul
stirred and his pulse grew stronger. He opened his eyes catching one
vague glimpse of the anxious face above him, but he was so feeble that
the lids closed down again. But Henry was cheered. Paul was not only
alive, he was growing stronger, and, bending down, he lifted him in his
powerful arms. Then he strode away in the darkness, intending to pass in
a curve around the hostile army. Despite Paul's weight he was able also
to keep his rifle ready, because none knew better than he that all the
chances favored his meeting with one warrior or more before the curve
was made. But he was instinct with strength both mental and physical, he
was the true type of the borderer, the men who faced with sturdy heart
the vast dangers of the wilderness, the known and the unknown.
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