'Did you hear that call?' said Manisty, stopping.
It was repeated, and they both recognised Lucy Foster's voice, coming from somewhere close to them on the richly grown hillside. Manisty exclaimed, ran on—paused—listened again—shouted—and there, beside the path, propping herself against the stones of the wall, was a white and tremulous girl holding a swathed arm stiffly in front of her so that the blood dripping from it should not fall upon her dress.
Manisty came up to her in utter consternation. 'What has happened? How are you here? Where are the others?'
She answered dizzily, then said, faintly trying to smile, 'If you could provide me with—something to tie round it?'
'Eleanor!' Manisty's voice rang up the path. Then he searched his own pockets in despair—remembering that he had wrapped his handkerchief round Eleanor's precious terracottas just before they started, that the little parcel was on the top of the basket he had given to Miss Foster, and that both were probably waiting with the tea-things below.
Eleanor came up.
'Why did we leave her?' cried Manisty, turning vehemently upon his cousin—'That was not Reggie and his party! What a horrible mistake! She has been attacked by some of these peasant brutes. Just look at this bleeding!'
Something in his voice roused a generous discomfort in Lucy even through her faintness.
'It is nothing,' she said. 'How could you help it? It is so silly!—I am so strong—and yet any cut, or prick even, makes me feel faint. If only we could make it stop—I should be all right.'
Eleanor stooped and looked at the wound, so far as the light would serve, touching the wrist with her ice-cold fingers. Manisty watched her anxiously. He valued her skill in nursing matters.