“Who’s hurt?” cried Sir John. “Do you hear?—who’s hurt?”
There was no answer, only the trampling of feet rapidly receding; and it was the major who now spoke.
“Jack,” he cried, “I can’t move; I’m tied, I’m afraid it’s Rolph.”
“God forbid!” groaned Sir John.
“Curse the brutes! Here, my arm’s smashed,” muttered someone, struggling to his feet. “Hi, Sir John!—Major!”
“You, Rolph? Thank heaven!” cried Sir John. “I was afraid you were killed. Where’s Morton?”
“Here, Sir John,” said a faint voice.
“Don’t say you’re shot, man.”
“No, Sir John. Crack on the head.”
“Then who is hurt?” said the major. “Here, someone, untie or cut this line.”