“Blood, mamma! you are bleeding. Where are you bleeding? Here. Good heavens, blood!”
Her head had struck against the edge of one of the steps, and the wound was bleeding slightly. Half stunned as Señora de Pardiñas was by the force of the blow, the agonized voice of her son recalled her to herself, and she answered faintly:
“Don’t be frightened, child; it is nothing; you may believe me, it is nothing. I am a little better now.”
“There is no one in the porter’s room. I am going upstairs to get some vinegar—some water——”
“No, child, no, for Heaven’s sake. Don’t call any one; make no disturbance. Help me gently to the carriage. For illness or the like, the best place is home.”
Trembling, and covered with a cold sweat, Rogelio assisted his mother to the carriage, into which he lifted her bodily, and then made her lean back in a corner while he fanned her with his handkerchief, thinking, with terror, “Can there have been any injury to the brain?”
“Home—drive slowly,” he said to the coachman, who had turned round curious to know what had happened. And unable to control himself, he threw his arms around his mother, putting the question usual in such cases:
“But mamma, how did you fall?”
“I don’t know, child. My foot slipped; it must have been the heels of the new shoes; or my foot may have caught in the flounce of my dress.”
“It was my fault not to have given you my arm. I am a brute. Where does it pain you? How do you feel now, mamma?”