"Now, Truchen and Lisa," the young girl said, stamping her foot, "come at once.
"Do you, Caroline, run and fetch the stand of cordials from the dining room."
The two women approached timidly.
"Now," Fergus said, "get your arm under his shoulders, on your side, and I will do the same. One of you others support his head when we lift, the other take his feet."
So, gently he was raised and laid on the couch. By the time this was done, the woman returned with a bottle of spirits.
"Now," he said, "water and a glass."
The young girl ran and fetched a carafe of water and a tumbler, standing on a table by the wall. Her hands shook as she handed it to Fergus.
"Are you sure that he is not dead, sir?" she asked, in a hushed voice.
"Quite sure. I fear that he is grievously wounded, but he certainly lives. Now, get another glass and put some spirits in and fill it up with water, and make your mother drink it, as soon as you have roused her from her faint."
Fergus now gave all his attention to the wounded man, poured two or three spoonfuls of strong spirits and water between his lips, and then proceeded to examine his wounds. He had three. One was a very severe cut upon the shoulder. His left arm had been broken by a pistol bullet, and he had a dangerous sword thrust in the body.