“Hurt? Ha—ha—ha!” He laughed a strange, ghastly laugh. “I made a bolt for it. The brutes fired at me—shot me like a dog.”
“Don’t speak,” said Luke, quickly. “Lie still, and let me try to stop this bleeding.”
“Yes; stop it quick!” gasped the injured man. “Yes, that’s it—in the chest—it felt red hot; but it did not stop me running, doctor. Lucky you were here.”
Luke raised his face involuntarily, and the men were face to face.
“Luke Ross!” gasped Cyril; and for a few moments, as Sage and Luke knelt on either side of the wounded man, he gazed from one to the other.
“Got a divorce?” he said, with a harsh laugh. “Are you married?”
“No,” cried Portlock, in a loud, emphatic voice. “Sage was coming to see you with me.”
“Then—then,” panted the wounded man, fiercely, “what does he do here?”
“I came at your father’s wish, Cyril Mallow,” said Luke, softly, for somehow his own father’s words seemed to be repeating themselves in his ear. “I obtained the order.”
“For my release?” cried Cyril, wildly. “For a visit,” replied Luke. “Now, take my advice. Be silent; exertion makes your wound bleed more.”