He met the white, smiling face of Carrick, who, dying, was striving to regain his feet. The red mist of carnage passed from Carter's eyes and sanity came back to him. Dismounting, he bent over the stricken Cockney.
"I was insane, Carrick, old chap," he said brokenly, as he drew his hand heavily across his aching brow. "I thought they had done for you." A sob choked him, caused by the recollection of the dream the fellow had urged as a reason for accompanying his master. The tables had turned bitterly against him.
Looking with that affection in his eyes that sometimes does exist between men, Carrick saw the thought with the weird prescience of the dying. "Dreams go by contraries, sir," he said and attempted a laugh.
"But it might have been Her Grace, Carrick, old man. You have saved her life." He grasped the fast chilling hand and wrung it fervently.
"Her Grace is safe, then?"
Carter striving busily to stanch half a score of wounds, nodded affirmatively.
"It's my last scrap, sir," the Cockney said simply.
"Nonsense. We'll pull you through." Carter lied manfully, but the other shook his head in resignation to the inevitable.
"She's a lydey—you understand—but would it be too great a shock—to 'er—for me to speak to 'er—before—before—I croak?" he stammered wistfully.
"I'll get her, old man." Gently he lifted the wounded Carrick, carried him to where, aside from the road, a bed of moss made a more comfortable pillow for the stricken red head, then, with a sigh, he set out to bring Trusia. Roweling deep, he raced with Death to bring a woman's solace to a dying man.