Furious at their failure, a score of red-coats, reloading as they
ran, came hot-footed after him. Down into cover of an alder swamp
he plunged, and confident of his speed, ran on, dashing through
thickets and mudholes. He knew that the red- coats would not
follow far in such a place, and his comrades were near. But the
alder thicket ended at a field. He heard the bushes crashing
close at hand, and dashed down a little ravine at whose lower
edge the friendly forest recommenced. That was his fatal mistake.
The moment he took to the open there was a rattle of rifles from
the hill above, and Rolf fell on his face as dead.
It was after noontide when he fell; he must have lain unconscious
for an hour; when he came to himself he was lying still in that
hollow, absolutely alone. The red-coats doubtless had continued
their flight with the Yankee boys behind them. His face was
covered with blood. His coat was torn and bloody; his trousers
showed a ragged rent that was reddened and sopping. His head was
aching, and in his leg was the pain of a cripplement. He knew it
as soon as he tried to move; his right leg was shattered below
the knee.
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