Mark, on his knees beside the low pallet, continued to watch the stricken man in the dim light. The dresser had brought a sponge and carefully washed the stained face, and the ashen features gleamed like those of a marble profile.
"What a perfectly beautiful face it is!" murmured Mark to himself. "Yet it lacks strength of character." All at once he recalled the pictured face of Mr. Morpeth's wife which Hester and he had examined that happy afternoon, in which she had seen a likeness to her husband. "A wonderful resemblance! I can see it now, and just that same something lacking." His thoughts now strayed to Hester, and the trouble hovering over her in this terrible disaster. Trying and unstable as this man had proved, the shock and horror of this event would mark a terrible crisis in her young life. He recalled her query, evidently wrung from a sore heart that morning at St. Thomas' Mount. Would the Master's shaping process be always sharp and painful and inscrutable—the tools He used sometimes making the poor quivering heart bleed? A sore answer was coming to that question.
Mark's reverie was now disturbed by the approach of the doctor. He was showing signs of excitement, and he stooped down and lilted low: "The Campbells are coming, hurrah, hurrah! The Campbells are coming, hurrah!"
"I know," nodded Mark quietly. "I saw the first of them appearing just at the moment this happened. Otherwise I doubt if even the claim of this poor fellow should have brought me from my post. The Collector's all right, is he?"
"As right as a trivet, and in great spirits. Rioters on both sides scuttling like rabbits. The police-peons are now, at last, busy making arrests and Samptor's striding about like an avenging fate! They've got Zynool—not without a struggle. However, he is nabbed, and the warrant out to search his house at once. Mootuswamy Moodliar has seen to that. It will be the Andamans for him, without doubt. The streets will soon be empty. The soldiers are to camp here for the night, but the danger's over. Here, alas, we have the worst result of the riot," said the doctor, glancing round on the rows of wounded men, many of them crying out in pain, others beyond any expression of their misery.
"Look, Campbell," said Mark, his eyes eagerly fixed on Rayner's face. "Isn't there some sign of returning consciousness here?"
A slight tremor passed through the mangled frame, the eyelids quivered and opened, and Rayner fixed his eyes on Mark's face for a moment, then closed them again. Presently, however, Mark found his large, lustreless eyes resting steadily upon him. The broken man made an effort to speak, but the voice was so low and faint it was difficult to catch the words.
"Cheveril!—It is you—thought I was dreaming—where am I? In Zynool's house—I remember. He spotted me—drove his horse on me—my own Australian too. He's done for me, Cheveril—every limb—game's up—nothing matters now——"
His voice died away, but after a moment he roused himself and fixed his eyes on the pitying face bending over him. "Kind, by Jove! I saw you—before Zynool—went for me."
"Don't be afraid, Rayner, this is not Zynool's house. It's the hospital, you're all right here," said Mark, taking his limp hand.