There he lay, his pale face upturned,
and the blood running from an ugly wound in the region of his heart.
"I do believe he _is_ dead," repeated Frank, with a shudder, as
he gazed sorrowfully at he work he had done. "But there was no
alternative between his death and a long confinement in prison. It was
done in self-defense;" and he turned to walk away.
Just then the thought struck him that he would take the rebel's
gun; his own was worse than useless, for his cartridges had all been
expended. So, throwing down his heavy musket, he picked up the rifle
his enemy had carried, and, slinging the powder-horn and bullet-pouch
over his shoulder, he started off through the woods.
But where should he go? His escape, and the manner in which it was
accomplished, had doubtless aroused the entire country. The woods
around him were filled with rebels, and the question was, in which
direction should he turn to avoid them? After some hesitation, he
determined to go as directly through the woods, toward the river, as
possible, and, if discovered, trust to his woodcraft and swiftness of
foot to save him.
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