“Hush, my lord!” whispered Mellersh. “Do you not see? The wretched woman is stabbed.”
“Stabbed!”
“Claire! Claire! Help! Claire!” wailed May faintly. At her sister’s wild cry a spasm seemed to shoot through Claire’s frame, and she wrested herself from Linnell, and threw herself beside the wretched little woman where she lay.
“May—sister,” she whispered.
“Take me—take me home,” said May, in a feeble, piteous voice. “Did you see him? I was frightened. I was going and he—he stabbed me.”
“Help! A doctor! For heaven’s sake, help!” cried Claire. “May, May, speak to me—dear sister.”
She raised the frail little figure in her arms as she spoke, till the pretty baby head rested upon her bosom, and Linnell shuddered as, in the dim light, he saw the stains that marked her dress and Claire’s hands.
“Miss Denville,” he whispered, “let Colonel Mellersh place her in the chaise. She must be got home at once.”
“Yes,” said Mellersh solemnly. “I can do no more.”
As he spoke he gave a final knot to the handkerchief with which he had bound the slight little arm.