"Dislocated, I fear," he said in level English accents. "And the collar-bone most certainly fractured."
Aylmer's ear served him where his eyes had failed. The voice was Landon's. It was his cousin who sat opposite him, smiling evilly from the shadow of the haik.
Something touched the wounded shoulder lightly, but not so lightly but that Aylmer winced again.
"Poor—poor!" said the childish voice again commiseratingly. "Is it badly hurted? When I fell off my pony they rubbed me wiv butter."
It was his little namesake, swaddled in white flowing garments, who stood at his elbow, peering into his face with anxious eyes.
Aylmer pulled himself into a sitting position, not without intense pain. But the throb of his wounded arm seemed to awake his dulled consciousness. He looked from father to son without bewilderment. His understanding had fully regained command of the situation.
His first action was typical of the man; he fumbled with his left hand at his holster.
Landon laughed.
"Empty, my dear John," he said. "Fogs, gales, the menacing hand of nature I do not pretend to have my remedy for. But I retain the common-sense which deprives my enemy of a weapon, when opportunity is my friend."
Aylmer was still silent. Landon gave a self-satisfied little nod of the head, a little motion which implied the insolence of triumph fully enjoyed.