“It wur Lowrie hissen, by ———!” she heard one say, as he dashed by.
“Feyther! Feyther, wheer are yo'? Feyther, are yo' nigh me?” she cried, for she heard both the blows and the shriek.
But there came no answer to her ear. The rapid feet beating upon the road, their echo dying in the distance, made the only sound that broke the stillness. There was not even a groan. Yet a few paces from her, lay a battered, bleeding form. There was no starlight now, she could see only the vague outline of the figure, which might be that of either one man or the other. For an instant, the similarity in stature which had deceived his blundering companions, deceived her also; but when she knelt down and touched the shoulder, she knew it was not the master who lay before her.
“It's feyther hissen,” she said, and then she drew away her hand, shuddering. “It's wet wi' blood,” she said. “It's wet wi' blood!”
He did not hear her when she spoke; he was not conscious that she tried to raise him; his head hung forward when she lifted him; he lay heavily, and without motion, upon her arms.
“They ha' killed him!” she said. “How is it, as it is na him?”
There was neither light nor help nearer than “The Crown” itself, and when her brain became clearer, she remembered this. Without light and assistance, she could do nothing; she could not even see what hurt he had sustained. Dead or dying, he must lie here until she had time to get help.
She took off her shawl, and folding it, laid his head gently upon it. Then she put her lips to his ear.
“Feyther,” she said, “I'm goin' to bring help to thee. If tha con hear me, stir thy hond.”
He did not stir it, so she disengaged her arm as gently as possible, and, rising to her feet, went on her way.