“He found Allan lying on his back, white and still.”
While Owen was lifting Allan so as to place him with his head resting more comfortably, McConnell rushed to the river and filled his joined hands with water. When he had struggled back, most of the water was gone, but they sprinkled this on Allan’s face and bathed his forehead.
“Do you think he has broken—anything?” asked McConnell.
“Somehow, I don’t,” Owen said. “It seems as if he had only knocked his head; but I can’t find a cut anywhere. If we could only get him up to the queer old man’s hut.”
“Yes,” assented McConnell. “We must do it. And I don’t see how.”
“You got down a shorter way,” said Owen. “We must carry him that way.”
But they both stared anxiously at Allan’s face. Would he wake up again?
While they were carrying him toward the opening in the ridge by which McConnell had descended, Allan opened his eyes.
“What’s the matter?” asked Allan.