“All right, sir, and you too, parson; goo on, niver mind me.”
The rector seemed disposed to stay, for he was breathless, but he trotted on, and was close to the doctor, as he reached the group on the other side of the stream.
“Not dead?” panted the doctor.
“Oh no, sir,” cried Macey, “but he’s very bad; seems to have tumbled about among the trees a great deal. Look at his face.”
The doctor knelt down after making the men stand back.
“Must have fallen heavily,” he said, as he began his examination. “Head cut, great swelling, bruise across his face, and eye nearly closed. This is no fall, Mr Syme. Good heavens! look at his hand and wrist. The poor fellow has been horribly beaten with sticks, I should say.”
“But tell me,” panted the rector; “he is not—”
“No, no, not dead; insensible, but breathing.”
“Found him, gentlemen?” said a voice; and as the rector looked up, it was to see the two police constables on their way to join them.
“Yes, yes,” cried the rector; “but, tell me, was there any firing in the night—any poachers about?”