He was cold—he was stiff and sore—he was hungry and feverishly thirsty,—he could realise all these things, but that was all, and he lay thinking and asking himself again and again, “What does it all mean?”
The first hint which his brain seemed to seize upon was given by a low deep sigh which came from close at hand.
Scarlett started up, staring wildly in the direction from which the sound came, while his hands and brow grew moist with terror—a terror which passed away, as a flash of mental light illumined his obscured brain, and he cried aloud—
“Father!”
There was no reply, and Scarlett’s horror and dread grew more intense, not from weak foolish imagination, but from the feeling that his father was lying wounded there, perhaps at the point of death, while he, who ought to have been aiding him in every way, must have been selfishly asleep.
The self-shame was not deserved, for nature had been too strong for Scarlett Markham, and it was more the stupor of utter exhaustion to which he had succumbed than sleep.
He crept to where Sir Godfrey lay, and felt for his face, which was cold and clammy, sending a shudder through the fingers which touched the icy brow, and then sought for the region of the heart.
Incongruous ideas of a trivial nature occur to people even in the most terrible times, and it was so here, for as Scarlett’s hand sought for his father’s breast, he found himself thinking of how good a thing it was that he removed the armour when he took him upon his back.
The heart was beating faintly, but the pulsations could be plainly felt, and this gave Scarlett some little hope, such as was badly needed at this crucial time. But what was he to do? How could he help him? For aught he could tell, they must have been there many hours, and once more a terrible chill ran through the youth, as the thought struck him that his father might be bleeding to death.
And what could he do? He was in utter darkness, and could not tell where the wounds might be.