The door was banged to, the orders given, and the next minute the horses were going at a canter, on no flight to London, but back to the Parade.
Richard Linnell stood gazing after the departing post-chaise for a few moments, to start as a hand was placed upon his shoulder.
“Is she hurt badly, Mellersh?” he whispered.
“Badly? Yes,” was the reply. “I’m afraid it is the last ride she will take—but one.”
“For heaven’s sake, gentlemen, lend a hand here,” cried Lord Carboro’ impatiently; and they turned to where Barclay was now kneeling by Sir Harry Payne, that worthy having just struggled back from a fit of fainting.
“Cursed cowardly blow,” he said in a shrill voice. “Who was it—Burnett? Why couldn’t he call me out?”
“Don’t talk, man,” cried Lord Carboro’. “Here, Mellersh, the fellow’s bleeding like a pig.”
“Am I?” cried Sir Harry faintly. “Damn it. A surgeon. The post-chaise.”
“A knife,” said Mellersh shortly, as he made as rapid an examination as he could in the darkness.
A pocket-knife was handed to him by Barclay, and he ripped up the coat and threw it aside.