“There! there!” whispered George Vine, pointing towards the fireplace, where he could see a figure lying athwart the hearthrug.
Then, as Luke held the light higher, George Vine seemed to recover his own presence of mind, and going down on one knee as he bent over, he turned the face of the prostrate man to the light.
“Duncan Leslie!” cried Uncle Luke excitedly, as he quickly set down the lamp and knelt on the other side. “Where’s Louy? The poor boy’s in a fit.”
“No, no,” whispered his brother hoarsely. “Look! look!”
Luke drew in a quick, hissing breath.
“Call Louy,” 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 swelling, 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.