Westerfelt. Harriet picked up a folded piece of letter paper.

"Did you drop this?" she asked.

He did not reply, but took the paper absently and thrust it into his
coat pocket. It had fallen from Wambush's pocket. He was very white
and leaned heavily against a sycamore-tree.

"Oh, he's cut your coat; look!" Harriet cried.

Still he did not speak. He looked down at the slit in the cloth and
raised his hand towards it, but his arm fell limply and he swayed from
side to side.

"Are you hurt?" asked Mrs. Floyd, anxiously.

"I think not," he said; "but maybe I am, a little."

Harriet opened his coat and screamed, "Oh, mother, he's cut! Look at
the blood!"

He tried to button his coat, but could not use his fingers. "Only a
scratch," he said.

"But your clothes are wet with blood," Harriet insisted, as she pointed
to his trousers.

He stooped and felt them. They were damp and heavy. Then he raised
his heel in his right boot, and let it down again.