“Curse them! no wonder,” groaned the unhappy man; and he drew his breath with a low hiss. “God! it’s awful pain.”
“Help me to lift him into the fly,” whispered Luke to Portlock and the driver.
“Cyril—speak to me,” whispered Sage, piteously. “You are not badly hurt?”
“Murdered,” he groaned. “Oh, if I had but a rifle and strength.”
“Hush!” said Luke, sternly, “you are wasting what you have left. Are you ready, driver?”
“There’ll be no end of a row about it when the warders come, but I’ll chance it, zir. Stop a moment, and I’ll open the farther door. It will be easier to get him in.”
“Who said warders?” panted Cyril, in excited tones. “Are they here?”
“No, no. Pray be silent,” whispered Luke. “Mrs Mallow, you must rise.”
“No, no, I will not leave him,” cried Sage.
“We are going to try and get him down into the town, Sage dear,” said her uncle, gently; “to a doctor, girl.”