Bryda staggered to her feet and did as she was bid. The doctor unstrapped the case, and taking out a small bottle, dropped some of its contents between the Squire's lips.
A slight movement of the eyelids followed just as old Silas returned with the horse and gig, which had been waiting with a servant till Mr Bayfield joined them about a quarter of a mile down the lane.
'Who did it?' the servant asked. 'Whose work is this?'
'It was a fight,' Bryda faltered; 'it was a fight.'
'A fair fight—eh? Who began it?'
Poor Bryda burst into weeping.
'Oh, do not ask me—do not ask me,' she murmured.
'Poor little dear!' said the doctor. 'Was it a fight about you—eh? Why, it's one of old Farmer Palmer's grand-daughters, I declare. Cheer up, my pretty one, yours is not the first pretty face which has made mischief between two suitors. There! there! he isn't dead yet, and he may live. I can't say yet, but we must get him home. How far is it?'
'A matter of twelve miles, sir.'
'Well, we must lay him across my shandry, it's more roomy than his gimcracky gig. And you,' he said, turning to the servant, 'must lead the horse. I'll watch him, and we can make a roughish sort of bed with the cushions from the gig. And what shall I do with you, my dear?' the doctor asked.