At the bend of the river a little rocky point jutted out a few yards
into the water. As the current carried the log toward this point,
Alfred, after divesting himself of some of his clothing, plunged in
and pulled it to the shore. The pallid face of the man clinging to
the log showed that he was nearly exhausted, and that he had been
rescued in the nick of time. When Alfred reached shoal water he
slipped his arm around the man, who was unable to stand, and carried
him ashore.

The rescued man wore a buckskin hunting shirt and leggins and
moccasins of the same material, all very much the worse for wear.
The leggins were torn into tatters and the moccasins worn through.
His face was pinched with suffering and one arm was bleeding from a
gunshot wound near the shoulder.

"Can you not speak? Who are you?" asked Clarke, supporting the limp
figure.

The man made several efforts to answer, and finally said something
that to Alfred sounded like "Zane," then he fell to the ground
unconscious.

All this time the dog had acted in a most peculiar manner, and if
Alfred had not been so intent on the man he would have noticed the
animal's odd maneuvers. He ran to and fro on the sandy beach; he
scratched up the sand and pebbles, sending them flying in the air;
he made short, furious dashes; he jumped, whirled, and, at last,
crawled close to the motionless figure and licked its hand.