“Don’t—don’t ask me,” she sobbed. “But I do ask you,” cried the Churchwarden, sharply. “Why,” he cried, struck as by a flash of inspiration, “Luke Ross has come down?”
“Yes,” moaned Sage, with a sigh of misery.
“And he did this?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Humph! Then he’s a plucked un!” muttered the Churchwarden, with a low whistle. “Well, anyhow we’ve got it over.”
“Is—is he dead, uncle?” whispered Sage, hoarsely.
“Dead—no. I tell you his head’s too thick. Well, you’ve done it, young lady. There, I’ll stop with him while you run up and tell Tom Loddon and Jack Rennie to bring the little stable door off the hinges. We must get him up to the farm.”
“Can’t—can’t I carry him, uncle?” said Sage, naïvely.
“Pish! what nonsense, girl. I don’t think I could carry him myself. Let’s try.”
He placed his arms round Cyril’s chest, and raised him into a sitting posture, the act rousing Cyril from his swoon.