“Lay her down on the grass, Onrai, until I can make an examination. Quick, she may yet be living; the elephant is.”
Carefully Onrai laid her on the grass, holding her head in his lap. Mr. Bruce bent down, and placing his ear to her heart, said:
“She yet lives. Quick, bring me a flask of brandy.” A flask was handed him, and placing this to the lips of Enola, poured a few drops down her throat. “Bring some water,” he again commanded, and this having been handed him, he bathed her bruised face and hands with it. She was badly lacerated, the cuts not being deep, but so many of them that an inch of whole skin could scarcely be found.
Harry looked as long as he could, but finally walked away; the sight of his loved one in this condition crazing him.
But for the faint beating of the heart, all would have pronounced her dead, for it could scarcely be hoped that one so terribly cut and bruised could survive. Even the body had not been spared, and great blotches of flesh had been torn from it by contact with the flying debris.
“Is there hope?” almost whispered Onrai.
“I cannot say,” said Mr. Bruce. “But if blood-poisoning does not set in, I should think, with her splendid constitution, she might get well. But she has laid here for hours exposed, and it is greatly against her chances for recovery. She must be taken where women attendants can help her, and that immediately.” And Mr. Bruce had to again place his ear over the region of the heart in order to tell whether she was yet alive.
“See, she opens her eyes,” said Harry, as he again comes up.
Yes, it was true, she had opened her eyes, but only for an instant, and then closed them again.
“Enola, look; do you not know us?” said Harry, as he bent over her.