And then the company, good, bad, and indifferent, had time to remember that a man was down—no, not one man, but two. To find out that Hartog was bruised and stunned, but able with help to get to the dressing-room and recover himself, to learn that the swarming crowd around the other was watching a more exciting race than that which they had just witnessed with shouts and applause, that they were watching with awe and in silence a race between life and death—for Gilchrist, the “odd” man of the regiment, the man who had been nobody’s friend, nobody’s chum, was lying in the midst of them with his back broken, waiting for a hurdle.
They were all as sorry as men could be who had never been moved by feelings of friendship. The proceedings were stopped at once, and they went gravely back to barracks, those who had ridden, to get into morning-clothes, and all of them to hang about waiting for news.
But there was no hope, absolutely no hope whatever. With all his faults, failings, and peculiarities, Gavor Gilchrist was passing away from their midst by exchange, as Hartog had once wished—the exchange, not of one regiment for another, but of this world for the next.
The swarming crowd round the other was watching a more exciting race than that which they had just witnessed
It was about six o’clock that the senior of the two surgeons in attendance on Gilchrist entered the anteroom, and, looking around, beckoned for Bootles.
“What news?” asked several voices.
“He won’t last the night. Bootles, he wants you.”
“I’ll come,” said Bootles, rising.