George Claris was among the first to enter, and he frowned angrily on seeing Clifford, of whose arrival he had not yet heard.
“So it’s you, is it, Mr. King!” he exclaimed surlily, on recognizing the man whom he looked upon as the origin of all his trouble. “And what have you been up to now, eh?”
“Oh, uncle, uncle, can’t you see that he’s hurt, badly hurt?” implored Nell. “Send for a doctor—oh, some one pray go for a doctor, or he will bleed to death!”
But George Claris hardly concealed the fact that that event would give him satisfaction rather than annoyance; he did not dare to interfere, however, when Nell gave orders to one of the men who had crowded in, to go to Stroan for a doctor.
“Who did it?” somebody, not the landlord, presently asked.
Clifford was by this time hardly conscious. He had been laid upon the sofa, while Nell herself, keeping enough presence of mind to be of use and to see what the danger was, held her own fingers to the wound to check the flow of blood.
She heard the question and answered it.
“It was Jem Stickels. He struck him through the glass.”
This reply led to further investigations, and Jem was quickly discovered and brought into the room where his victim lay. Unconscious though he was, having been stunned severely, Jem, of course, got no pity from Nell. And when some of the men suggested carrying him to the cottage where he lodged, which was within a stone’s throw of the inn, Nell made no suggestion that he should remain where he was, being unaffectedly glad to have him taken out of her sight.
Buxom Meg exchanged many a nod and wink and grin with the customers from the bar, inspired by the utter absorption Nell showed in her lover and his danger.