Hartley Salis caught his friend by the wrist, and then yielded himself, and followed the doctor as he moved from the room.
“North, old fellow,” he said, in an eager whisper, “what does that mean? Is she much hurt?”
“Try and bear it like a man, Salis. It may not be so bad as I fear, but I cannot hide from you the truth.”
“The truth! Good heavens, man, speak out!”
“Hush! She is too weak from the shock to bear it now. Let her learn it by degrees, only thinking at present that she is nerveless and stunned.”
“But you don’t mean—Oh, North!” cried the curate, in agony.
“Salis, old friend, it would be cruel to keep back the truth,” said the doctor, taking his hand. “It may not be so bad, but I fear there is some terrible injury to the spine.”
“Good heavens!” cried Salis wildly; “that means paralysis and death.”
“Let’s hope not, old friend.”
“Hope!” cried the curate wildly. “How has that poor girl sinned that she should suffer this?”