“I don’t know,” said Denis dreamily; and then in an excited voice, “Yes, I do!” he cried. “I remember it all now. He came galloping along on the centre horse, with the others on each side at the full extent of their reins. I stood there to stop them, and he came right at me to ride me down. But I started a little on one side and thrust at him, when my horse’s tight rein caught me right below the chin, and at the same moment my right arm was jerked upwards, and— that’s all. Where is he now?”
“Gone,” said Saint Simon, “and with your mark upon him too. Why, you brave old fellow! You, a mere boy! I daren’t have faced three galloping horses like that. But you are not wounded?”
“My right arm seems to be gone. Is it broken, Sim?”
The young man began to feel it gently from shoulder to wrist, raised it, and laid it down again, while the boy bore it for a time, flinching involuntarily though again and again, till he could bear no more.
“Oh!” he groaned at last. “Don’t! It’s horrible! How you do hurt! I suppose I shall have no arm. It’s horrible, Sim. I wish he had killed me out of hand.”
“What! Why, my dear brave old fellow, it’s only a horrible wrench, and will soon come right.”
“Not broken?” cried the boy wildly.
“Broken? No, or it wouldn’t move like that. Why, Denis, lad, when you gave point you must have run him through, and as he tore on your arm must have been wrenched round while he dragged himself or was carried away—of course, as the horses galloped on.”
“But where is he?” cried Denis.
“I don’t know. He wasn’t here when I came up. He must have taken flight—I mean, crawled away, for he must have been wounded badly.”