Presently her foot caught in a tangle of heather, and she fell heavily, as she was running at full speed, and struck her head against some sharp stones lying in a heap at the edge of the track, which could hardly be called a path.
'Mother! mother!' Ambrose called; and in another moment a hand was laid on his shoulder—a strong hand, with a grasp which the child felt it was hopeless to resist. 'Mother! mother!'
The cry of distress might well have softened the hardest heart; but men like Ambrose Gifford are not troubled with what is commonly understood by a heart. He spoke, however, in gentle tones.
'My poor child, your mother is much hurt. We must seek for the aid of a surgeon. We must get help to carry her home. Come with me, and we will soon get help.'
'No, no; I will not leave my mother,' Ambrose said, throwing himself on the ground by her side. 'Why doesn't she speak or move? Mother!'
Alas! there was no answer; and a little red stream trickling down from a wound on the forehead frightened Ambrose still more.
'It is blood!' he cried, with the natural shrinking which children always show when their own fingers are cut. 'It is blood! Oh, mother!'
But Ambrose was now quietly lifted in a pair of strong arms, and the words spoken in his ear,—
'We must seek help; we will get a surgeon. Your mother will die if we do not get help, boy. Hush! If you cry out your mother may hear, and you will distress her. Hush!'
Poor little Ambrose now subsided into a low wail of agony as he felt himself borne along.