Part 3, Chapter XIV.
The Convict’s Escape.
The quiet, half-asleep horse, dreamily hunting for grains of corn amidst a great deal of chaff, threw up its head and made a violent plunge forward, but was checked on the instant by the driver.
“What is it?” cried Portlock, leaping from the fly, as Sage uttered a cry.
By this time Luke was trying to lift the man, who had fallen almost at his feet, and drawing him away from the horse’s hoofs, where he lay in imminent danger of being kicked.
As far as Luke could see, he was a tall, gaunt, broad-shouldered fellow, and it needed not the flyman’s information for him to know that it was a convict—his closely-cropped hair and hideous grey dress told that more plainly than words could tell.
“What does it mean?” said the Churchwarden again. “Some one hurt?”
As he spoke, Luke Ross, who had laid the man down, uttered an exclamation of horror. His hands were wet with blood.
“He is wounded!” said Luke, in a whisper, as he drew out his handkerchief, and sank upon one knee. “Don’t let Mrs Mallow come near.”
His words of warning were too late, for just then the figure of Sage Mallow seemed to loom out of the fog, coming timidly forward with outspread hands like a person in the dark.
“He’s hit hard,” said the driver. “Poor chap! there’s no escape for him.”
“Let his head rest upon your arm,” said Luke, hastily. “Mr Portlock, tear my handkerchief into three strips, and give me yours. The poor fellow is bleeding horribly.”
“Who’s that? Where am I? Stand back, cowards! Fire, then, and be damned.”
A low, wailing cry of horror checked him, and Sage Mallow flung herself upon her knees beside the injured man.
“Cyril! Husband!” she cried, wildly. The convict started violently, and drew himself back.
“Sage!” he panted. “You—here?”
“Yes—yes!” she cried. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
“Hurt? Ha—ha—ha!” He laughed a strange, ghastly laugh. “I made a bolt for it. The brutes fired at me—shot me like a dog.”
“Don’t speak,” said Luke, quickly. “Lie still, and let me try to stop this bleeding.”
“Yes; stop it quick!” gasped the injured man. “Yes, that’s it—in the chest—it felt red hot; but it did not stop me running, doctor. Lucky you were here.”
Luke raised his face involuntarily, and the men were face to face.
“Luke Ross!” gasped Cyril; and for a few moments, as Sage and Luke knelt on either side of the wounded man, he gazed from one to the other.
“Got a divorce?” he said, with a harsh laugh. “Are you married?”
“No,” cried Portlock, in a loud, emphatic voice. “Sage was coming to see you with me.”
“Then—then,” panted the wounded man, fiercely, “what does he do here?”
“I came at your father’s wish, Cyril Mallow,” said Luke, softly, for somehow his own father’s words seemed to be repeating themselves in his ear. “I obtained the order.”
“For my release?” cried Cyril, wildly. “For a visit,” replied Luke. “Now, take my advice. Be silent; exertion makes your wound bleed more.”
“Curse them! no wonder,” groaned the unhappy man; and he drew his breath with a low hiss. “God! it’s awful pain.”
“Help me to lift him into the fly,” whispered Luke to Portlock and the driver.
“Cyril—speak to me,” whispered Sage, piteously. “You are not badly hurt?”
“Murdered,” he groaned. “Oh, if I had but a rifle and strength.”
“Hush!” said Luke, sternly, “you are wasting what you have left. Are you ready, driver?”
“There’ll be no end of a row about it when the warders come, but I’ll chance it, zir. Stop a moment, and I’ll open the farther door. It will be easier to get him in.”
“Who said warders?” panted Cyril, in excited tones. “Are they here?”
“No, no. Pray be silent,” whispered Luke. “Mrs Mallow, you must rise.”
“No, no, I will not leave him,” cried Sage.
“We are going to try and get him down into the town, Sage dear,” said her uncle, gently; “to a doctor, girl.”
She suffered her uncle to raise her up, and then the three men bent down over Cyril to bear him to the carriage.
“Stop!” he said, faintly. “I am not ready. Something—under—my head—the blood—”
Luke raised his head, and he breathed more freely, but lay with his eyes closed, the lids quivering slightly, as Sage knelt beside him once again, and wiped the clammy dew from his brow.
“It don’t matter at present, gentlemen,” said the driver. “I couldn’t drive through this fog. We should be upset.”
Just then shouts were heard close at hand, and the injured man opened his eyes and fixed them in the direction of the sound.
“Demons!” he muttered, just as there was another shot, and a loud shriek as of some one in agony.
“Another down,” panted Cyril, with great effort, as he seemed to be listening intently.
“How long will it take us to get back to the town?” said Luke, quickly.
“Two hours, sir, if the fog holds up. If it goes on like this no man can say.”
“Mr Portlock,” said Luke, as he motioned to Sage to take his place in supporting the wounded man’s head, “what is to be done? I am no surgeon, and my bandaging is very rough. He is bleeding to death, I am sure,” he whispered. “We must have a surgeon. Had I not better summon help?”
“Where from?”
“From the prison. A shout would bring the warders.”
“I hear what you say,” cried Cyril, fiercely. “Sage, that man is going to betray me to those blood-hounds.”
“Luke!” cried Sage, who was almost mad with grief.
“There is no surgical help to be got but from the prison,” said Luke, calmly. “I proposed to send for it by the warders.”
“Too late,” said the injured man, in a low voice. “Fifty surgeons could not save me now. Let me be.”
“What shall I do?” whispered Luke.
“Poor fellow! We had better call the men.”
“It would kill him,” groaned Luke; and he stood hesitating, Cyril watching him the while with a sneering laugh upon his lips.
“It’s a sovereign reward, lawyer,” he said, faintly. “Are you going to earn it?”
For answer Luke knelt down there in the mist, and poured a few drops of spirit from his flask between the wounded man’s lips.
He was about to rise, but Cyril uttered a painful sob and caught at his hand.
“I didn’t mean it,” he whispered, “I’m a bad one, and the words came. I’d say God bless you—but—no good—from me.”
Luke’s cold thin hand closed upon the labour-hardened palm of the wounded man, and he remained there kneeling with Sage, who held the other hand between both of hers, and gazed helplessly, and as if stunned, at her husband’s face.
“Glad—you came, Sage, once more,” he said. “Poor little widow!” he added, with a curious laugh.
“Had we not better get the prison doctor to you, Mallow?” said Luke.
“No good,” he replied. “The game’s up, man. I know. Sage—tell the old lady I thought about her—a deal. Have they found poor Ju?”
She stared at him still, for there was not one loving word to her—not one question about his children.
“Poor thing! Always petted me,” he gasped—“poor mother!”
Just then there were voices heard close at hand, the trampling of feet; and Cyril Mallow’s eyes seemed to dilate.
“Hallo, here!” cried a rough voice, as four men seemed to appear suddenly out of the cold grey mist. “Seen anything of—Oh, here we are, Jem; one of the wounded birds.”
The speaker, who was in the uniform of a warder, strode up, and, bending down, roughly seized Cyril by the shoulder.
“Didn’t get off this time, ’Underd and seven,” he said. “Nice dance you’ve—”
“Hands off, fellow!” cried Luke, indignantly. “Do you not see that he is badly hurt?”
“Who are you?” cried the warder, fiercely. “Don’t you resist the law. Now then, ’Underd and seven, up with you. No shamming, you know.”
He caught the dying man’s arm, as Cyril gazed defiantly in his face, and made a snatch, as if to drag him up, when, exasperated beyond bearing at the fellow’s brutality, and on seeing Sage’s weak effort to shield her husband, Luke started up, and struck the ruffian so fierce a blow, full on the cheek, that he staggered back a few steps, and nearly fell.
He was up again directly, as his three companions levelled their pieces, and the sharp click, click of the locks were heard.
“Down with him, lads!” cried the warder. “It’s a planned thing. They were waiting with that fly.”
The warders came on, but Luke did not shrink.
“You know,” he said, firmly, “that your man exceeded his duty. Here is the Home Secretary’s order for us to see this prisoner. I shall report to-day’s proceedings, you may depend.”
“We’ve got our duty to do, sir,” said one of the men roughly. But he took the paper, and read it.
“Seems all right,” he whispered. “Keep quiet, Smith. They couldn’t get away if they wanted.”
“How long would it take to fetch the surgeon?” said Luke, sternly; “or could we get him to the prison through the fog?”
“I think we could lead the horse,” said the warder addressed, who began to feel some misgivings about the day’s work, as he truly read Cyril Mallow’s ghastly face.
“Luke—Luke Ross,” said a faint voice that he did not seem to recognise, and he turned and knelt down once more by the wounded man, the warders closing in, to make sure that it was no trick.
“Ross—my hand,” panted Cyril. “Fog’s—getting thick—and dark. Smith—you fired—but—do you hear—I’ve got away.”
There was a terrible pause here, and, to a man, the warders turned away, for they saw what was coming now.
“Luke Ross—good fellow,”—panted the dying man—“Sage—my wife—little ones.”
His eyes seemed to give the meaning to his words, as, still heedless of his wife’s presence, he gazed in those of the man whose life he had seemed to blast.
“Wife—little ones. God for—”
”—Give you, Cyril Mallow,” whispered Luke, bending lower, “as I do, from my soul.”