Mr. Sinjin, having tied up the wound, directed him how to find the surgeon. And Ellis, in return, pointed out the best way to get at Jack. The company had advanced, driving the rebel skirmishers before them, and leaving Winch where he had fallen. Frank and his companion soon reached the spot. There lay the hapless youth under the roots of the tree, the left side of his face and neck all covered with gore. "Jack!" cried Frank, stooping by his side, and lifting his arm. No answer. The arm fell heavily again as he released it. "Dead!" said the boy, a sudden calmness coming over him. "We may as well leave him where he is, and look for others." "Not dead yet," said the more experienced Sinjin, feeling Jack's heart, which was beating still. In corroboration of which statement Winch uttered something between a gasp and a groan, and rolled up horrible eyes. Frank was standing, and the old man was trying to find Winch's wound, in order to prevent his bleeding to death while they were carrying him out, when the report of a rifle sounded, seemingly quite near, and a bullet passed with a swift vehement buzz close by their ears. At the instant Frank felt something like a quick tap or jerk on his arm. He looked, and saw that the strip of red flannel, which betokened the service he was engaged in, and which should have rendered his person sacred from any intentional harm, had been shot away. A hole had been torn in his sleeve also, but his flesh was untouched. The old drummer looked up quickly. "Are you hurt?" "No," said Frank, feeling of his arm while he looked around to discover where the shot came from. "It must have been a spent ball; for, see! it fell there in the water!"--pointing at a pool behind them, the surface of which was still rippling with the plunge of the shot. Winch gave another groan. "The wound must be an internal one," said Sinjin, "for he is not bleeding much now." Frank assisted to lift him, and together they bore him back towards the road. It was a difficult task. Frank had neither the stature nor the strength of a man; but he made up in energy and good will what he lacked in force. Very carefully, very tenderly, through bogs and through thickets, they carried the helpless, heavy weight of the blood-stained volunteer. "Frank! is it you?" murmured Winch, faintly. "Yes, Jack!" panted the boy, out of breath with exertion. "Am I killed?" articulated Jack. "O, no!" said Frank. "You've got a bullet in you somewhere; but I guess the surgeon will soon have it out, and you'll be all right again." "O!" groaned Jack. Just then there came another rifle-crack, not quite so near as before, and another bullet came with its angry buzz. It cut a twig just over Mr. Sinjin's head, and grazed a cypress tree farther on, at a point considerably lower, and with a downward slant, as the mark revealed. "Another spent ball," said Frank. But the old drummer shook his head. "Those are no spent balls. Some murderous rebel is aiming at us."