Ringan had sheathed his blade, and was looking at me with a queer smile
on his face.

"Yon was a merry bout, Andrew," he said, and his voice sounded very far
away. Then he swayed into my arms, and I saw that his vest was dark
with blood.

"What is it?" I cried in wild fear. "Are you hurt, Ringan?" I laid him
on a bed of moss, and opened his shirt. In his breast was a gaping
wound from which the bright blood was welling.

He lay with his eyes closed while I strove to stanch the flow. Then he
choked, and as I raised his head there came a gush of blood from his
lips.

"That man of yours...." he whispered. "I got his knife before he got my
sword.... I doubt it went deep...."

"O Ringan," I cried, "it's me that's to blame. You got it trying to
save me. You're not going to leave me, Ringan?"

He was easier now, and the first torrent of blood had subsided. But his
breath laboured, and there was pain in his eyes.

"I've got my call," he said faintly. "Who would have thought that
Ninian Campbell would meet his death from an Indian shabble? They'll no
believe it at Tortuga. Still and on...."

I brought him water in my hat, and for a moment he breathed freely. He
motioned me to put my ear close.