She suffered her uncle to raise her up, and then the three men bent down over Cyril to bear him to the carriage.
“Stop!” he said, faintly. “I am not ready. Something—under—my head—the blood—”
Luke raised his head, and he breathed more freely, but lay with his eyes closed, the lids quivering slightly, as Sage knelt beside him once again, and wiped the clammy dew from his brow.
“It don’t matter at present, gentlemen,” said the driver. “I couldn’t drive through this fog. We should be upset.”
Just then shouts were heard close at hand, and the injured man opened his eyes and fixed them in the direction of the sound.
“Demons!” he muttered, just as there was another shot, and a loud shriek as of some one in agony.
“Another down,” panted Cyril, with great effort, as he seemed to be listening intently.
“How long will it take us to get back to the town?” said Luke, quickly.
“Two hours, sir, if the fog holds up. If it goes on like this no man can say.”
“Mr Portlock,” said Luke, as he motioned to Sage to take his place in supporting the wounded man’s head, “what is to be done? I am no surgeon, and my bandaging is very rough. He is bleeding to death, I am sure,” he whispered. “We must have a surgeon. Had I not better summon help?”