"We must get a stretcher of some sort up to him, to bring him home. I am going to consult John Pinder."
"Where is papa?" interrupted Treve.
"Lying in a ditch in the large meadow. Chattaway's bull has attacked him. I am not sure but he will die."
The first thing Treve did was to cry out. George put his hand over his mouth. But Mrs. Ryle and Nora, who were full of curiosity, both as to George's jacketless state and George's news, had followed into the passage. Treve began to cry.
"He has dreadful news about papa, he says," sobbed Treve. "Thinks he's dead."
It was all over. George must tell now, and he could not help himself. "No, no, Treve, you should not exaggerate," he said, turning to Mrs. Ryle in his pain and earnestness. "There is an accident, mamma; but it is not so bad as that."
Mrs. Ryle retained perfect composure; very few people had seen her ruffled. It was not in her nature to be so, and her husband had little need to caution George as he had done. She laid her hand upon George's shoulder and looked calmly into his face. "Tell me the truth," she said in tones of quiet command. "What is the injury?"
"I do not know yet——"
"The truth, boy, I said," she sternly interposed.
"Indeed I do not yet know what it is. He has been attacked by Chattaway's bull."