Chapter Twenty Six.
Tregelly’s idea of a gold trap.
Dropping the piece of wood, he dashed into the dark hut, to find that the rush of wind from the suddenly opened door had started the embers in the middle of the floor flickering in a dim lambent flame, just enough to show him that the barrel table had been knocked over, the boxes used for seats driven here and there, the bed occupied by his cousin dragged away, the boards lifted, and the earth underneath it torn up, while Abel was lying face downward close up to the remains of their store of wood.
It was all in one comprehensive glance that he had seen this, and it seemed still to be passing panorama-like across the retina of his eyes, when the faint flame died out and he dropped upon his knees beside the prostrate man.
“Oh, Bel, lad,” he groaned; “what have I done? I oughtn’t to have left you. Bel, old man, speak to me. God help me! He can’t be dead!”
His hands were at his cousin’s breast to tear open the clothes, and feel if the heart was beating, but for the moment he shrank back in horror, half paralysed with the dread of learning the truth.
It was but momentary, and then he mastered the coward feeling, uttering a gasp of relief, for there was a faint throbbing against the hand he thrust into the poor fellow’s breast.
“Alive! I am in time,” he muttered, and he continued his examination in the dark, expecting to feel blood or some trace of a wound.
But, as far as he could make out, there was nothing of the kind, though he felt that his cousin must have been attacked; so, after laying the sufferer in a more comfortable position, he felt for the matches on the rough shelf, struck one, saw that the lamp stood there unused, and the next minute he had a light and went down upon one knee to continue his examination.
At the first glance he saw that Bel’s throat was discoloured, and there were ample signs of his having been engaged in some terrible struggle, but that was all. No, not all; the poor fellow was like ice, and quite insensible.