"We can feel no blood or broken bones," he said. "Hold your light here by his head, if you please, Robert."
The yellow glow played over the Irishman's long face. His lips were drawn back in what had been a smile; his eyes were fixed and glassy; no pulse beat in his corded throat. Moira crouched beside him, chafing his limp hands and crooning a medley of endearments in English, Irish and Spanish. Murray, opposite her, thrust exploring fingers into the bosom of her father's shirt. A startled look appeared in my great-uncle's lambent eyes, but his features preserved their immobility.
"'Tis useless to cry to him, lass," he said gently. "He doth not answer, you see."
"But he will!" she protested. "Sure, ye must soon be finding what is wrong with him, sir. It may be a sup of brandy would bring him round."
My great-uncle reached across and plucked from her grasp the hand she had been rubbing.
"Come," he said, rising, "we will ask Peter to carry him to his berth, shall we?"
"But—but—we must bring him to!"
"We can not bring him to," he answered kindly.
She stood up, bewildered.
"Not—bring—him—to? But why?"