"It's like the wound Davey had," Steve cried, when he saw the way the flesh was ploughed up on Conal's breast, "only nearer the heart."
Conal moaned as the cold water struck him. A damp sweat lay on his forehead.
"It's all up—I'm done for," he muttered. "Give me—your hand, Deirdre—never—never thought I'd reach you—but I couldn't die—there—in the dark—down by the creek."
His voice failed.
"Don't try to talk, Conal dear," she begged. "You'll be all right if you keep quiet—lie still—Davey was."
But there was a greyness about Conal's face, a dimness that Davey's had not had.
"Davey?" he muttered. "Davey—"
His eyes opened; they were the wild, bright eyes, reckless and challenging, of Fighting Conal.
"You—believe—I shot Davey?"
"No." Deirdre bent over him, her breath coming sobbingly. "I don't believe it now, Conal. The same hands that did this to you—did it to Davey, too—"