"I won't leave him." She shrank back pitifully.
"You needn't, dear. Lie down on the sofa. I'll call you if he stirs. I promise, Jean."
She let him put her on the sofa, wrapping a rug about her, and taking off her slippers. The doctor went out, after whispering a few directions, and John Lester sat down beside his son.
He did not know much about the outside world since they had come racing home in the car on Thursday evening, to find Dick's broken body, mercifully unconscious, awaiting them. The car had turned back within five minutes, breaking speed records to bring a doctor from the nearest town, sixty miles away; and since that they had never left the boy's side. To the stupor of unconsciousness had succeeded delirium, when he had struggled with unseen enemies and urged on unseen horses, fighting blindly with pain that robbed him of all sense. The doctor, a young country practitioner, acknowledged his helplessness; the thing was beyond him, and until a surgeon and nurses could arrive from Perth he could only administer narcotics and opiates, that had until now been of little effect. There was injury to the head, that was certain; beyond that he feared that the spine was affected. The spear wound, once relieved of the terror that the barb might have been poisoned, was comparatively simple. But John Lester's face was old and haggard as he stared at his son.
Out in the bush, north of the run, infuriated men were scouring the ranges for the flying blacks, dealing out swift justice without waiting for black trackers and police, whose slower methods were little satisfaction to a district that clamoured for revenge. From fifty miles around men had come to help to hunt down the slayers, until Narrung resembled a huge camp when night brought the hunters home to the head station. In another room lay Merle, ill from shock and exhaustion. She had clung to Conqueror's mane until the grey horse came to a standstill at the gate of the home paddock. Downes and old Harry had found them there, and had had to use force to unclasp her fingers. But the Lesters knew nothing of these things. The world, for them, began and ended round Dick's bed.
The slow hours passed, and still Dick and his mother slept. Now and then Mrs. Warner, as haggard as they, tiptoed to the door, bringing food or offering help; but John Lester would not leave the room. He ate mechanically, knowing that he must eat; but his eyes scarcely wandered from the dark head on the pillow, half hidden in its ice-pack. He prayed, desperately, muttering thanks for every moment of the blessed sleep that meant freedom from pain—-that might bring healing in its wings. All the while he watched for any change—for any shade of colour to creep into the still, white face. But no change came; and the day dragged on to evening.
Mrs. Lester woke with a start, trembling. Her husband was beside her in a flash, holding her, whispering.
"No change—and he has slept all this time! Oh, thank God!" Her pale lips quivered—and then she clung to him, starting up. "John—you are sure it is really sleep?"
"It's really sleep," he told her. "Now you go—get a bath and some food. No, you must do it, Jean—remember, this isn't going to be a short business, and you will need all your strength. I'll call you if he moves." Mrs. Warner came in answer to his finger on the electric bell, and took her away.
It was an hour later that Dick's eyes opened, and he looked at his mother wearily.