e frontiers, while I lie wounded here in the
depths of the wilderness."

This example, powerful in affecting Reuben's decision, was aided,
unconsciously to himself, by the hidden strength of many another
motive. Roger Malvin perceived that the victory was nearly won.

"Now, go, my son, and Heaven prosper you!" he said. "Turn not back with
your friends when you meet them, lest your wounds and weariness
overcome you; but send hitherward two or three, that may be spared, to
search for me; and believe me, Reuben, my heart will be lighter with
every step you take towards home." Yet there was, perhaps, a change
both in his countenance and voice as he spoke thus; for, after all, it
was a ghastly fate to be left expiring in the wilderness.

Reuben Bourne, but half convinced that he was acting rightly, at length
raised himself from the ground and prepared himself for his departure.
And first, though contrary to Malvin's wishes, he collected a stock of
roots and herbs, which had been their only food during the last two
days. This useless supply he placed within reach of the dying man, for
whom, also, he swept together a bed of dry oak leaves. Then climbing to
the summit of the rock, which on one side was rough and broken, he bent
the oak sapling downward, and bound his handkerchief to the topmost
branch. This precaution was not unnecessary to direct any who might
come in search of Malvin; for every part of the rock, except its broad,
smooth front, was concealed at a little distance by the dense
undergrowth of the forest. The handkerchief had been the bandage of a
wound upon Reuben's arm; and, as he bound it to the tree, he vowed by
the blood that stained it that he would return, either to save his
companion's life or to lay his body in the grave. He then descended,
and stood, with downcast eyes, to receive Roger Malvin's parting words.

The experience of the latter suggested much and minute advice
respecting the youth's journey through the trackless forest. Upon this
subject he spoke with calm earnestness, as if he were sending Reuben to
the battle or the chase while he himself remained secure at home, and
not as if the human countenance that was about to leave him were the
last he would ever behold. But his firmness was shaken before he
concluded.

"Carry my blessing to Dorcas, and say that my last prayer shall be for
her and you. Bid her to have no hard thoughts because you left me
here,"--Reuben's heart smote him,--"for t