“Oh me! Oh St. Peter! Oh murder! murder! murder!” cried he. Instantly all the party were collected round him. He lay in a small open space on the grass, with his basket bottom upward at his side, and all the berries scattered on the ground. “What is the matter?” asked Glenn. “Oh, I’m snake-bitten! I’m a dead man! I’m dying!” cried he, piteously. “That’s a fib,” said Sneak, “bekaise a dead man can’t be a dying.” “Let me see,” said William, stooping down to examine the place on which Joe’s hands were convulsively pressed. With some difficulty he pulled them away, and tearing down the stocking, actually saw a small bleeding puncture over the ankle bone! “What kind of a snake was it?” asked Glenn in alarm. “A rattlesnake—Oh!” “Did you _see_ it?” continued Glenn, knowing Joe’s foible, though it was apparent he suffered from some kind of a wound. “I heard it rattle. Oh, my goodness! I’m going fast! I’m turning blind!” La-u-na told him to run to the house and cover the wound with salt, and remain quiet till Sneak could obtain some plantain leaves from the prairie. Joe sprang up and rushed down the hill. Sneak set out in quest of the antidote, and the rest directed their steps homeward. When they reached Roughgrove’s house, they found Joe lying in the middle of the floor on his back, and groaning most dolefully. He had applied the salt to the wound as directed, and covered it and his whole leg so plentifully with bandages that the latter seemed to be as thick as his body. “How do you feel now, Joe?” asked Glenn. “I’m a dead man!” said he. La-u-na told him not to be alarmed, and assured him there was no danger. “But I’ll die before Sneak can get back!” “Your voice is too strong to fear that,” said William; “but do you suffer much pain?” “Oh, I’m in agony!” said he, rolling back his eyes. “Where does the pain lie?” asked Glenn. “Oh, St. Peter! all over me! In my toes, ankles, legs, arms, heart, throat, mouth, nose, and eyes! Oh, I’m in tortures! I’m blind—I can’t see any of you!” At this moment Roughgrove, who had been over the river on a visit to Boone, entered the apartment with the renowned hunter at his side. When fully informed of the circumstances, Boone stooped down and felt Joe’s pulse. “The strokes are irregular,” said Boone. “Oh heaven!” exclaimed Joe. “But that may be caused by fright,” continued Boone. “Oh goodness! it ain’t that—I’m a dying man!” “Is the leg much swollen?” asked Boone, endeavouring to ascertain without taking off the bandages. “Oh! oh! don’t do that! it’ll kill me in a minute—for its swelled fit to burst!” cried Joe, shrinking from Boone’s grasp. “All the cases of snake-bite that I have seen differ from this. I have always found the swollen limb nearly devoid of feeling. Did you kill the snake?” “No—Oh!” “Tell me precisely the place where you were standing when it bit you—there is a mystery about it that I must solve.” “Oh—it was—I can’t speak! my breath’s going fast! Oh! Paternoster—”