Instantly rang back an answering shout, and within five minutes the little search party stood in the tumbled-down shelter, almost too overjoyed for words.
Old George gripped his young master’s hand and the tears rained down his face.
“We were losing heart,” he said. “We were almost giving you up, but I’d never have gone back to face the mistress without you.”
“Have you blankets?” Lawrence asked, trying not to show what he was suffering, and still quite unable to stand alone.
George took in the situation at a glance, seeing him in shirtsleeves and the deadly pallor on his face.
“The young lady won’t hurt for a minute or two,” he said with sudden sharpness to the others. “Come and help me chafe the master’s limbs,” and he almost lifted Lawrence bodily, laying him down on a blanket and setting to work with a will, after first giving him some brandy. After a little while the pain gave and the colour came back to his lips, but meanwhile Paddy had awakened, and, without making any sound, sat watching. She knew instinctively what had happened, and she would not for worlds have attracted any attention to herself until Lawrence was better, his drawn face and blue lips going straight to her heart.
After a little, with George’s help, Lawrence managed to get to his feet and stand upright, and then he turned at once to Paddy.
“Give me the flask,” he said, and the others waited while he poured out some brandy and held it to her lips. Then he seemed quite himself again, and prepared to start for home, arranging everything, and, as usual, compelling acquiescence. Paddy wanted to try and walk, but he would not hear of it, and finally she had to get into the litter he contrived for her with blankets and be carried down the steep and dangerous slope.
At three in the morning the sound of footsteps at last fell on the straining ears at Mourne Lodge, and Mrs Blake hastened wildly to the door, her composure fast giving way.
“Lawrence!” she called out into the night. “Lawrence!” And only a mother could have spoken the name so.