Looking back, this man saw George disappear, and without hesitation he
dashed into the water again. Reaching the spot, he groped about, and
then, with both hands clutching an inanimate form, he dragged his
burden to the bank.
"George, by Heaven!" he cried, as soon as he could get a glimpse of
the features. It was true; Matthew Blackett had saved his friend's
life at the risk of his own. And it had been a risk, for a dozen
bullets had splashed around him as he had hauled his heavy load along.
"Blackett!" exclaimed Fairburn, a moment or two later, when,
recovering, he opened his eyes. "Where's your horse?"
"Done for, poor wretch! And yours?"
"Shot under me, at the very first volley. And it was you who dragged
me out! I shall remember it! But here we are on the right side; come
on!"
The lads gripped each other warmly by the hand, and side by side
dashed on into the thick of the _melee_. A large number of the allied
cavalry had by this time made good their passage across, in spite of
the fiercest opposition on the part of the enemy. In vain Blackett
urged his companion to withdraw and get himself away with his wounded
arm. George would not budge an inch. It was only a flesh wound, it
afterwards appeared. So the two North-country lads stood by each
other.
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