“Certainly not! What do you think we are made of?” rejoined Miss Susan. “Here,”—now sinking down—“place his head in my lap, and just go as hard as ever you can!”
“He is in a very bad way, I’m afraid, and I really don’t like leaving you, but there’s no help for it.” Then, after sticking a flaring lamp on the ground beside them, he climbed into his place and sped away.
In less than half an hour he had returned, accompanied by Dr. Boas; they found the poor sufferer still alive and moaning, his head supported by Miss Susan, and his lips bathed by her niece.
“I half expected this,” said the doctor, as he knelt beside Captain Ramsay. “Internal injuries,” he announced, after a rapid examination, “and fatal.”
“The stretcher and the parish nurse will be here presently,” said Owen; and, hearing a familiar voice, Captain Ramsay slowly opened his eyes and asked—
“Oh, it’s cold. Where am I? Where’s Katie?”
As he recognised Owen bending over him, he murmured—
“Wynyard, Wynyard—hold on—I’m coming!”
“You see he is off his head,” said Miss Susan, “poor fellow; he did not know what he was doing.”
Then, as the chauffeur relieved her of the dying man’s weight, he regained consciousness, and, again opening his eyes, he whispered “Wynyard!” and passed away in the arms of Wynyard’s son.