“Are you safe, Syl?”
“Oh, yes. But you—can you say where you are hurt?”
“I’m glad I let go,” murmured Lucian; while it came over Sylvester with a flash of certainty that the clasping hand had not given way from faintness, but had loosed its hold rather than risk pulling him over. “I am—done for,” gasped Lucian. “I am hurt—inside—I can’t speak—Mother—my love—and her.”
He sank again into unconsciousness, and Howard, the young undergraduate, put his arm round Sylvester to support him as he held Lucian’s weight, and put the whiskey-flask to his lips.
“Is he your brother?” he whispered.
“No; my friend, and he has given his life for mine. Oh, my God! Can the boat get there?”
It came at last, and as they lifted Lucian into it, there was a sob of pain that showed life at least. And life, Sylvester tried to feel, meant hope.