"Oh, no, I never saw him in my life before. They say he is staying in the village."
"You will be dreadfully tired after this," he said, sympathetically.
"Oh, it, does not matter in the least. I am never tired; I never have anything to tire me. You don't really think his skull is broken, do you?"
"If the man that struck him could break the bone of his arm in two, I'm afraid it looks bad for the poor chap. It's a most ghastly thing, 'pon my word. I never heard of such an outrage! Broad daylight in a little country place like this! It's horrible to think of."
But he was not thinking wholly of Allonby and his mysterious fate; he was marvelling at the utter unconsciousness of the girl who walked beside him, her hand confidingly clasped in his. He had never met a girl so vilely dressed—never seen even a housemaid who wore such astounding boots; but this Miss Brabourne was evidently not in the least aware of how far her toilette came short of the requirements of an exacting society. In spite of the urgency of the moment, by the time they arrived back at the scene of action, he was lost in a speculation as to how long it would take this anomaly in the way of girlhood, if suddenly transported into the midst of fashionable London, to discover her own latent capabilities.
Lady Mabel had not been idle in their absence. She had slit Allonby's coat-sleeve, pulled his jointed mahl-stick to pieces, and contrived an impromptu splint for the broken arm therewith. She was supporting his head in her lap, and bathing it with the contents of her vinaigrette.
The wounded man's eyes were open, and he was moving his head uneasily and slowly, groaning deeply every now and then. It was plain that he was quite unconscious of his surroundings, and that he suffered much.
Elaine crept up with a fixed stare of wonder, and crouched down on the grass near. His eyes fell on her a moment,—they were big, honest, hazel eyes,—and the girl shivered and shrank, turning crimson as she met his gaze, though it was vacant and wild, and wandered off elsewhere in another second.
"Oh, if he would not groan so! Oh, how he suffers; he is going to die," she cried, mournfully.
Jane came up and drew her away, as the men assembled round the prostrate figure, and lifted it on to the hurdle, Mr. Cranmer carefully supporting the head, which was laid on a soft shawl of Lady Mabel's.