“Not dead—not murdered!” gasped Oswin, clutching the rail with both hands.
“Murdered? no; how could he be murdered? he must have fallen from his horse among the trees.”
“And he is dead—he is dead?”
“Calm yourself, Markham,” said the colonel; “he is not dead.”
“Not in that sense, my boy,” laughed Major Crawford. “By gad, if we could leave the brute up to the neck in the river here for a few hours I fancy he would be treated properly. Hold him steady, Markham.”
Oswin put his hand mechanically to the feet of the man who was lying helplessly across the saddle.
“Not dead, not dead,” he whispered.
“Only dead drunk, unless his skull is fractured, my boy,” laughed the major. “We'll take him to the stables, of course, George?”
“No, no, to the house,” said Colonel Gerald.
“Run on and get the key of the stables, George,” said the major authoritatively. “Don't you suppose in any way that your house is to be turned into an hospital for dipsomaniacs. Think of the child.”