As the lieutenant heard the lad’s voice, he opened his eyes, looked round wildly, and then his gaze rested on Syd’s anxious face.
“Ah, Belton,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “bad job. The gear gave way—confounded gun—fell—crushed my legs. Ah!”
He uttered a groan full of anguish and fainted away.
“It’s horrible!” cried Roylance, as every one looked on helplessly. “No surgeon; the gale increasing, and the ship out of sight. Here, some one get some brandy or rum. Ah, Belton!” he whispered, with the tears in his eyes, “such a good fellow, and I’m afraid it’s all over.”
Syd heard this as if in a dream, as a deathly feeling of sickness came over him, and there floated before his eyes a scene in a grand old beech-wood near home, with a group of men standing round, helplessly as these were, the sun shining down like a silver shower through the branches, beneath which was a doctor’s gig and a man in a smock frock holding the horse’s head. There on the moss, where scattered white chips shone out clearly, lay a fine, well-built young man close by the trunk of a tree which he had been helping to fell, but had not got out of the way soon enough, and the trunk had crushed his legs.
The scene died away, and he was gazing down again at the unfortunate lieutenant instead of at the woodman, with the doctor on his knee and a boy by his side; and as the deathly sickness passed off he was brought more to himself by hearing the haughty domineering voice of Terry.
“Stand away, some of you—all of you!” he cried. “Mr Belton, do you hear me? Go away, sir; you are keeping the air from the wounded man.”
Accustomed to obey, fresh ashore from the ship where the discipline was of the strictest, Syd drew back; but as he did so a hysterical sob burst from his throat, and he stepped forward again.
“Confound you, sir! do you hear me?” cried Terry. “I am in command now. Stand back, or I’ll put you under arrest.”
As he advanced threateningly, Roylance touched Syd’s sleeve.