Gladwyne had dismounted and was with some difficulty leading the chestnut toward the hedge. His face was white; he moved with a strong suggestion of reluctance; and when he reached the spot where Lisle lay he seemed to have trouble in speaking.
“Is it dangerous?” he asked.
“I can’t tell,” Nasmyth answered sternly. “Shoulder’s smashed; don’t know if that’s the worst. Why didn’t you pull up the brute or send him at the hedge to the right?”
“He’s hard in the mouth—you know his temper. You couldn’t have turned him.”
“I’d have tried, if I’d had to bring him down and break his neck!”
Nasmyth checked himself, for this was not the time for recriminations, and Millicent, who had been running hard, brushed past them. She did not stop until she bent over Lisle. Then she turned to Nasmyth with fear in her strained expression.
“I think he’ll get over it,” Nasmyth told her. “I won’t take the responsibility of having him moved until the doctor arrives.”
“Quite right,” agreed Batley, walking up and casting a swift and searching glance at Gladwyne.
“But you can’t let him lie on the wet grass!” Millicent expostulated.
“I’m afraid we must; it’s safest,” said Batley. “The shock’s not so much to be dreaded with a man of his kind.”