At last his fit of coughing ceased, and a kind of peace came into his
face.
"Allen, my dear old boy," I said--I don't often use the language of
affection--"did you never hear that all that stupid story was cleared up;
that everyone knows you are innocent?"
He only shook his head; he did not dare to speak, but he looked happier,
and he put his hand in mine.
I sat holding his hand, stroking it. I don't know how long I sat there;
I had put my coat and waterproof under him. He was "wet through," of
course; there was little use in what I did. What could I do with him?
how bring him to a warm and dry place?
The idea seemed to strike him, for he half rose and pointed to the little
burnside, across the loch. A plan occurred to me; I tore a leaf from my
sketch-book, put the paper with pencil in his hand, and said, "Where do
you live? Don't speak. Write."
He wrote in a faint scrawl, "Help me to that burnside. Then I can guide
you."
I hardly know how I got him there, for, light as he was, I am no
Hercules. However, with many a rest, we reached the little dell; and
then I carried him up its green side, and laid him on the heather of the
moor.
He wrote again:
"Go to that clump of rushes--the third from the little hillock. Then
look, but be careful. Then lift the big grass tussock.
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