“That didn’t break itself, Jo,” she said, pointing to it. “Hold Punch a moment: I’m going to have a peep in.”
“You’re not to get off,” Jo said quickly.
“Well, I’ll peep in, anyhow.” She rode up to the doorway of the hut. The pony shied violently.
“Jo!—there’s a man there. He’s lying down.”
“Then you come away,” said Jo decidedly.
“He looks queer: I think he’s sick.”
“Drunk, more likely. Don’t be a donkey, Jean—you know Father would be wild with us if——” She stopped uncertainly, looking at her twin. A low moan had come from the hut. There was something very pitiful in the sound.
“I say,” Jean called clearly: “are you ill?”
There was no answer, but presently the low sound came again. The twins rode to the doorway, controlling their frightened ponies, and looked in.
The man lay quite near the doorway. There were tracks in the dust that seemed to show that he had crawled there, and had then collapsed. His face was partly turned towards them—a delicate face, begrimed with dust, but showing traces of refinement. It was very white under the dust, and his lips were bloodless.