“For heaven’s sake tell me, aunt!” sobbed Sage.
“But am I to?” said the old lady, trembling before her niece.
“Yes, yes,” cried Sage. “I must know. Is he dead?”
“No, no, my darling,” said Mrs Portlock, piteously. “Tom Morrison was going home, but he could not get round by the ford. The cutting in Low Lane was full, so he came round our way; and—oh, dear me! oh, dear me!”
“For heaven’s sake, aunt, go on,” cried Sage, half fiercely now.
“Yes, my darling,” sobbed Mrs Portlock; “and they’ll be here directly, I hope and pray. And he came upon Cyril.”
“Cyril!” shrieked Sage.
“Lying buried in the snow, just at the corner where he fought Luke Ross.”
Sage stood gazing at her with a blank white face, shivering violently as her aunt went on in a voice choked with tears.
“Tom Morrison tried to carry him on here, but he could not get him through the snow, so he came for help, and—heaven be thanked, here they are!”