“Serve him right,” muttered Tom. Then rising and pushing the door, which had swung to, he entered the dark billiard-room, where he felt his way to the spirit stand, and took a hearty draught. “Curse him! he’s as strong as a horse. I wish he had broken his neck.”
The brandy gave him nerve, and he returned through the baize door into the light.
“Must lend him a hand, I suppose,” he muttered, as he descended the stairs to where the squire lay in a heap, his head upon the mat, one leg doubled beneath him, and the other through the balustrade, which held it fast.
Tom Candlish stood peering down at him for a few moments, and then, as his brother did not move, he stooped towards him.
“Here,” he said roughly, as he took hold of his wrist; “don’t lie like that; you’ll have a blood-vessel burst.”
There was no reply; and, as the wrist was loosed, the arm fell in an absolutely nerveless way.
“Here, Luke!” he cried; “get up. Don’t fool. Get up, man!”
Still no reply, and, beginning to be startled, Tom Candlish went down upon one knee and tried to move his brother’s head into a more comfortable position.
As he did so, the light fell athwart so ghastly and strange a countenance, from whose lips the blood was slowly trickling, that he let the head glide from his hands, for it to sink suddenly with a dull thud upon the stairs.
“Good God!” ejaculated the young man, in a low, excited voice. “Here, Luke! Luke, old man: hold up!”