S BROTHER.

No orders were given for attack that night, and Fred went to the rough
shelter that served him for tent, to lie down, but not to sleep, for his
thoughts were either at the Manor, which was to him as if it were a
hundred miles away; at the Hall, where he knew that the little Royalist
party were doing everything to resist the impending attack; or in the
gloomy old patch of ancient forest they called the wilderness, where
poor Nat lay helpless, and very little removed from death.

"I can't sleep," said Fred, at last, as he rose from his bed, which
consisted of a pile of heather, over which his horseman's cloak was
thrown, and impetuously hurrying out, he stood gazing up at the bright
stars, with the cool moist wind from the north-west bearing to his hot
cheeks the freshness of the sea.

"Perhaps dying," he said to himself at last. "I can't lie there
thinking about it. I will go, at all costs, and he shall go with me."

He stepped back into his rough tent, buckled on his sword, threw the
strap of a wallet over his head, and then took the remainder of his
evening meal and a small flask, which he placed in the wallet. This
done, he paused for a few moments, and then sought a scarf and a couple
of handkerchiefs, which he also thrust into the wallet.

The next minute he was groping his way toward the place in a thick grove
where the horses were picketed; and he had not far to look, on reaching
his own, before finding Samson curled up in a half-sitting, half-lying
position between the mossy buttresses formed by the roots of a huge
beech.

Stooping down, he seized his henchman's shoulder, and shook him, but
only elicited a grunt.

He shook him again, but though his act was more vigorous, it only
elicited a fresh series of grunts.

"You idle pig!" cried Fred, angrily, as he administered a kick; "get
up!"

_Snore_!

A long-drawn, deep-toned snore.

"Samson! I want you." No response. Samson's senses were so deeply
steeped in sleep that nothing seemed to rouse him.

"I wish I had a pin," muttered Fred, as he kicked and shook again,
without effect. "And there isn't a thorn anywhere near. Spurs!" he
exclaimed. "No," he added in a disappointed tone--"too blunt. There's
no water to rouse him nearer than the lake; and if there was, it would
be too bad to let him go about drenched. What shall I do? Samson, get
up; I want you. I'll prick you with my sword, if you don't wake up."

"Tell him the enemy