As he spoke, Luke Ross, who had laid the man down, uttered an exclamation of horror. His hands were wet with blood.
“He is wounded!” said Luke, in a whisper, as he drew out his handkerchief, and sank upon one knee. “Don’t let Mrs Mallow come near.”
His words of warning were too late, for just then the figure of Sage Mallow seemed to loom out of the fog, coming timidly forward with outspread hands like a person in the dark.
“He’s hit hard,” said the driver. “Poor chap! there’s no escape for him.”
“Let his head rest upon your arm,” said Luke, hastily. “Mr Portlock, tear my handkerchief into three strips, and give me yours. The poor fellow is bleeding horribly.”
“Who’s that? Where am I? Stand back, cowards! Fire, then, and be damned.”
A low, wailing cry of horror checked him, and Sage Mallow flung herself upon her knees beside the injured man.
“Cyril! Husband!” she cried, wildly. The convict started violently, and drew himself back.
“Sage!” he panted. “You—here?”
“Yes—yes!” she cried. “What is it? Are you hurt?”