The boy lay like one that was dead, with his eyes partly closed, and the blood trickling from the wound in his forehead. For a moment, the heart of Little Rifle seemed to stand still, as he believed that it was all over with him, and he knelt down to make sure. Examining the wound, he found that it was much less serious than he had supposed, the bone of the forehead being unbroken. It had probably been caused, not by striking the jagged point of a rock in his fearful descent, but when driven about by the whirlpool or current, his head must have grazed some of the numerous projections, causing only a superficial wound, where, in the other case, instant death would have been the result. Little Rifle tore a piece of the fringe from his hunting-shirt, and with it endeavored to stanch the flow of blood. As he pressed it against the raw wound, the forehead of the lad contracted as though with pain. Little Rifle paused for an instant, and then did it more gently than before. At this the sufferer opened his eyes, looking up with a vacant, bewildered stare, like one recovering from a sound sleep. His attendant now raised his head upon his knee, and endeavored to rouse him to consciousness. “Cheer up, my young friend, you are past all danger now; you have had a trip that you can boast of as long as you live. How do you feel?” But the faculties of the boy were knocked up too much for him to comprehend his situation. He mumbled something that was unintelligible, and then closed his eyes as if to sink into a slumber. Little Rifle was at a loss to understand what this meant but he feared it was a bad sign, and now that he had begun, he determined to arouse him to a full sense of his position. He shook him quite violently, all the time speaking in a loud voice, and fighting off his drowsy tendency. The lad had swallowed a large quantity of water, which, having thrown out, he began to show some evidence of his returning faculties. Looking steadily in the face of Little Rifle, he glanced at the rapid river flowing by at their feet, and then seeming to comprehend, for the first time, he spoke with some coherence. “And is it possible that I came over these falls and live to remember it? It can not be possible; it is incredible.” “But it is true for all that,” replied Little Rifle, with a smile of delight. “You have a slight wound upon your forehead; but if that is all, you will soon be all right again. Just examine yourself and see whether you have any other injuries.” The boy stretched his limbs, and with some assistance got upon his legs, hobbling about for several minutes. “They are in order, and it seems I haven’t got any thing broken but my head.” “Nor that either,” said his friend, his pleasure showing itself in his radiant face and the tones of his voice. “You have had a great shaking up, but it was a most wonderful escape. You will go with me to my home and remain with me until you recover your strength, or until you are anxious to go.”