A little farther away on the floor, near the table, there was the body of another man, in another uniform, a naked sword lying by his side; he had a frightful-looking wound on his forehead, and the blood was slowly oozing out of his coat-sleeve, staining the lace at his left wrist.
Even as he looked, the man turned a little on the floor, and the same low moan broke from his lips.

Talbot stepped over the first body to the side of the other.
"My God, it's Seymour," he said.

He knelt beside him, as Katharine had done.

"Seymour," he called, "Seymour!" The man opened his eyes slowly, and looked vacantly at him.
"Katharine," he murmured.
"What of her?
is she safe ?" asked Talbot, in an agony of fear.
"Raiders--prisoner," continued Seymour, brokenly, in a whisper, and then feebly murmured, "Water, water!" "Here, Dick, get some water quickly! First hand me that decanter of wine," pointing to one which had fortunately escaped the eyes of the marauders.

He lifted Seymour's head gently, and with a napkin which he had picked up from the floor, wiped the bloody face, washing it with the water the groom quickly brought from the well outside.
Then he poured a little of the wine down the wounded man's throat, next slit the sleeve of his coat, and saw that the scarcely healed wound in the arm had broken out again.