“My poor brave boy!” said the old man gently, as he supported the wounded lad. “There, only a little farther. Ah! Hoi! Rugg! Dummy Rugg! Here, quick!”
The lad, who was perched upon a block of stone half-way up the zigzag, evidently watching for his young master’s return, sprang down and came running to them.
“What’s the matter?” he cried hoarsely. “Don’t say Master Mark’s hurt!”
“Hush! Quiet, boy!” said Master Rayburn quickly. “Help me to get him into his own room without frightening Miss Mary.”
“Yes; but what’s the matter?” cried the boy.
“Been attacked—fighting—slightly wounded.”
“But who done it?—I know. It was them Darleys. Which of ’em was it?”
“Quiet, I tell you, boy! Can’t you see he has fainted? Why do you want to know?”
“To kill him,” said the lad, through his teeth.
“Humph! you young savage,” muttered Master Rayburn; “then you will not know from me. Lead the pony carefully, Dummy,” he continued aloud. “Where is Sir Edward? where is your young mistress?”