“Left shoulder. I think we’d better take the risk and make Hand Cross.”
“Yes, but first I will bind up your shoulder. Are you bleeding very much?”
“Like a pig,” said Ludovic.
She slid to the ground, stiff and somewhat bruised, and said imperatively: “Get down! If you bleed like a pig you will die, and I do not at all want you to die.”
He laughed, but dismounted, and found himself steadied by two small but capable hands. He reeled and sank on his knees, saying: “Damme, I must be worse hit than I knew! You’d best take the horse and leave me.”
“I shall not leave you,” replied Eustacie, busily ripping the flounce off her petticoat. “I shall take you to Hand Cross.”
Receiving no answer, she looked closely at him and found to her dismay that he had fainted. For a moment she was at a loss to know what to do, but when she touched him and brought her hand away wet with blood, she decided that the most urgent need was to bind up his wound, and promptly set about the task of extricating him from his coat. It was by no means easy, but she accomplished it at last, and managed as well as she could for the lack of light to twist the strips of her petticoat round his shoulder. He regained consciousness while she was straining her bandage as tight as possible, and lay for a moment blinking at her.
“What in—oh, I remember!” he said faintly. “Give me some brandy. Flask in my coat.”
She tied a firm knot, found the brandy, and, raising his head, held the flask to his lips. He recovered sufficiently to struggle up and to put on his coat again. “You know, you’d be wasted on Tristram,” he told her. “Help me into the saddle, and we’ll make Hand Cross yet.”
“Yes, but this time it is I who will take the reins,” said Eustacie.