shone full upon it, showed that it was pale as death and covered
with blood. His clothes were rent and dishevelled and covered with
dust, as if he had struggled hard with some powerful foe, and all round
the spot were footprints of a rhinoceros, revealing too clearly the
character of the terrible monster with which our friend had engaged in
unequal conflict.

Peterkin darted forward, tore open Jack's shirt at the breast, and laid
his hand upon his heart.

"Thank God," he muttered, in a low, subdued tone, "he's not dead!
Quick, Ralph--the brandy-flask."

I instantly poured a little of the spirit into the silver cup attached
to the flask, and handed it to Peterkin, who, after moistening Jack's
lips, began assiduously to rub his chest and forehead with brandy.
Kneeling down by his side I assisted him, while I applied some to his
feet. While we were thus engaged we observed that our poor friend's
arms and chest had received several severe bruises and some slight
wounds, and we also discovered a terrible gash in his right thigh which
had evidently been made by the formidable horn of the rhinoceros. This,
and the other wounds which were still bleeding pretty freely, we
stanched and bound up, and our exertions were at length rewarded by the
sight of a faint tinge of colour returning to Jack's cheeks. Presently
his eyes quivered, and heaving a short, broken sigh, he looked up.

"Where am I, eh? Why, what's wrong? what has happened?" he asked
faintly, in a tone of surprise.

"All right, old boy. Here, take a swig of this, you abominable
gorilla," said Peterkin, holding the brandy-flask to his mouth, while
one or two tears of joy rolled down his cheeks.

Jack drank, and rallied a little.

"I've been ill, I see," he said gently. "Ah! I remember now. I've
been hurt--the rhinoceros; eh, have you killed it? I gave it a good
shot. It must have been mortal, I think."

"Whether you've killed it or not I cannot tell," said I, taking off my
coat and putting it under Jack's head for a pillow, "but it has pretty
nearly killed _you_. Do you feel worse, Jack?"

I asked this in some alarm, observing that he had turned deadly pale
again.

"He's fainted, man; out o' the way!" cried Peterkin, as he applied the
brandy again to his lips and temples.

In a few seconds Jack again rallied.

"Now, Mak, bestir yourself," cried Peterkin, throwing off his coat.
"Cut down two stout poles, and we'll make some sort of litter to ca