“Call Louie,” he said sharply. “Tell her to bring something to bind up his head—scissors, sponge, and water.”
“Has he been struck down?” faltered George Vine, with the thought of his old friend rushing to his mind.
“No, no. Don’t talk. Here, your handkerchief, man,” said Luke, who was far the more matter-of-fact. “A fall. Head cut. Slip on the cliff, I suppose, and he has come here for help.”
Taking the handkerchief passed to him by his brother, he rapidly bound it round the place where a deep cut was slowly welling, while George Vine dragged sharply at the bell, and then ran to the door and called, “Louise! Louise!”
Liza came hurrying into the hall, round-eyed and startled.
“Where is your mistress?” cried Vine.
“Miss Louise, sir? Isn’t she there?”
“No. Go up to her room and fetch her. Perhaps she is with Miss Vine.”
“I’ll go and see, sir,” said the girl wonderingly; and she ran up-stairs.
“Help me to get him on the sofa, George,” said Uncle Luke; and together they placed the injured man with his head resting on a cushion.