A protuberance on the young hunter’s back told the giant that the arrow had nearly gone through the body, and delicately, yet firmly, the rude surgeon set to work. His keen hunting-knife first severed the shaft; then made the incision, and the remainder of the shaft was withdrawn. Then some astringent liniment was rubbed on and into the wounds, which were covered with strong adhesive plasters. As this operation was completed, Mayne Fairfax groaned and opened his eyes. His first inquiry regarded his situation. “You’re in the home of Bill Hewitt,” answered the giant, “and he has just pulled the arrow of that madwoman from your body. Luckily, as I have discovered, it struck no vital part. The deviation of an inch, either to the right or the left, would have rendered my surgical operations unnecessary. So you may begin to believe in special providences.” Fairfax tried to answer, but the condition of his throat, torn by the jaws of the gray wolf, baffled him. “I’ll dress your breathing apparatus right now,” said Hewitt, “and then I opine you can chatter away like a parrot.” The young hunter never winced under the pain occasioned by the dressing of his throat. “It’s best for you to stay down for a few days,” said Hewitt, after completing the operation. “Exertion of body may irritate your breast wound, and end in something disagreeable. I’ll stay with you all the time, for I don’t go visiting much in these parts, nor these times. Now just lay still, but talk to me while I get supper for two; tell me all about yourself, and what brought you alone away down here. Boy, you look like a Virginian.” “I am a Virginian,” answered Fairfax, watching the giant’s backwoods culinary operations. “My name is Fairfax.” “Fairfax!” cried the backwoodsman, quickly turning upon the speaker. “What Fairfax?” “The son of Ronald Fairfax, of Roanoke.” “I knew him,” said the giant. “That is singular. When did you leave Virginia?” “So you’ve got to questioning before you’re half through with your story, eh?” cried Hewitt, with a strange smile. “Well, I’ll tell you; but you must go on with _your_ tale; and perhaps I’ll tell you mine, some day. _Perhaps_, I say, and _some day_. I left Rockbridge county a matter of twenty-one years ago.” “Three months since I stood in my father’s house,” resumed young Fairfax, whose countenance told that he would have questioned his preserver further; “and were it not for the existence of that accursed renegade, Jim Girty, I would be there this night.” “Yes, curse Jim Girty, boy,” muttered Hewitt. “Oh that curses could kill.”