"Is it—you?" said David Linton, weakly. The darkness hid his face, but to hear his voice again was wonderful; and Norah's hands shook as she wrestled with the flask.
"Yes, it's me," she said. "Oh, Dad, dear old Dad, are you much hurt?"
"I don't know." The voice was very faint. Her fears surged back.
"Try to drink some of this—it's weak, and you won't choke," she said. "Is your head hurt, Daddy? Could I lift it a little?"
"Not hurt," he managed to say. So she groped in the darkness to lift the heavy head, and together they made a sorry business of the flask, spilling far more than he drank. Still, some went the right way; and presently he spoke again, his voice stronger.
"I knew you'd come... mate."
"Tait found you," she said. "And Jim was here, but he's gone for the men. We'll take care of you, Daddy. Could I move you any way to help?"
"Better not," he said. "Just—be there." His hand closed on hers, and he seemed to slip off into unconsciousness again, for when she spoke to him he did not answer. So Norah sat and held his hand; and the night crept on.
"Coo-ee!" Far off a shout. She slipped her hand away gently, and ran a little way before answering, lest the cry should startle him. Then she shouted with all her strength; and soon the beat of hoofs came nearer and out of the darkness Jim came back, Murty galloping with him.
"He's spoken," said Norah; "but he's gone off again. And he's had some whisky."