“Dada,” she said, “he fell into the pool yonder, and was battered against the rocks. See there at his forehead.”
“Mally, I’m thinking that he’s dead already,” said old Glos, peering down over the body.
“No, dada; he is not dead; but mayhap he’s dying. But I’ll go at once up to the farm.”
“Mally,” said the old man, “look at his head. They’ll say we murdered him.”
“Who’ll say so? Who’ll lie like that? Didn’t I pull him out of the hole?”
“What matters that? His father’ll say we killed him.”
It was manifest to Mally that whatever any one might say hereafter, her present course was plain before her. She must run up the path to Gunliffe’s farm and get necessary assistance. If the world were as bad as her grandfather said, it would be so bad that she would not care to live longer in it. But be that as it might, there was no doubt as to what she must do now.
So away she went as fast as her naked feet could carry her up the cliff. When at the top she looked round to see if any person might be within ken, but she saw no one. So she ran with all her speed along the headland of the corn-field which led in the direction of old Gunliffe’s house, and as she drew near to the homestead she saw that Barty’s mother was leaning on the gate. As she approached she attempted to call, but her breath failed her for any purpose of loud speech, so she ran on till she was able to grasp Mrs. Gunliffe by the arm.
“Where’s himself?” she said, holding her hand upon her beating heart that she might husband her breath.
“Who is it you mean?” said Mrs. Gunliffe, who participated in the family feud against Trenglos and his granddaughter. “What does the girl clutch me for in that way?”