The doctor recognized Alexa, and wondered what reception her lather would give his patient, for to Potlurg he must go! Suddenly she came to herself, and sat up, gazing wildly around. “Out of breath, Miss Fordyce; nothing worse!” said the doctor, and she smiled.
He turned to the young man, and did for him what he could without splints or bandages; then, with the help of the guard and Andrew, constructed, from pieces of the broken carriages, a sort of litter on which to carry him to Potlurg.
“Is he dead?” asked Alexa.
“Not a bit of it. He's had a bad blow on the head, though. We must get him somewhere as fast as we can!”
“Do you know him?”
“Not I. But we must take him to your house. I don't know what else to do with him!”
“What else should you want to do with him?”
“I was afraid it might bother the laird.”
“You scarcely know my father, Doctor Pratt!”
“It would bother most people to have a wounded man quartered on them for weeks!” returned the doctor. “Poor fellow! A good-looking fellow too!”