“P’r’aps she isn’t killed; let us see!”
Trafford knelt down, and with her head still upon his breast, unfastened her blouse.
The blood was oozing from a little wound in her shoulder; he could feel her heart beat, though faintly, under his hand.
“She ain’t dead,” said Simon, judging by the swift look of unspeakable relief upon Trafford’s face. “I thought as how Varley Howard aimed too high to hit her mortal, like. It’s lucky for you, mister, that she come a-tween you, or you’d been a dead ’un. She’s saved your life—if she’s lost her own.”
Varley knelt on the other side of Esmeralda in speechless agony. Simon turned to Norman.
“What’s to be done?” he asked. “They two have lost their wits, and you and me will have to act.”
“We must get her to some place of shelter,” said Norman, huskily.
“That’s so,” said Simon. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and fetch my man; we’ll make a kind of litter and carry her to the hut—p’r’aps we could fix up something out of the things lying about here,” and he looked round.
“Yes—yes, for God’s sake, let us do something!” said Norman.
With some of the débris and a couple of planks from the hut they constructed a litter, Varley assisting them in a kind of stupor. When they carried it to where Trafford still held Esmeralda in his arms, he looked up with bewildered eyes.