We trust you, and if you'll give us your hand like a man-like an Englishman should--we'll come." Mark's hand went out, and his handsome young face shone with the glow that was at his heart, as he gripped the grimy blackened hand extended to him.
He held on tightly, and then gazed wonderingly at the man, whose face turned of a very ashy hue, and he caught at the pony's mane to save himself from falling.
"What is it ?" cried Mark eagerly; "you are faint!" "Got my hand brent a bit, young master," said the man, recovering himself with a forced laugh.

"Better now." He drew back, and limped a little.
"But you are badly hurt.

I'll get Master Rayburn to run down." "Nay.

We'll come up to him.

Let him stop with the young master." "You are not fit to come." "What! Not to have a stroke at them devils ?" cried the man fiercely.
"I'm a-coming, and so's all as can walk.