“My father is dead,” said Falloden, deadly pale, but composed. “How long have you been here?”
“About half an hour. When I arrived he was in agonies of pain. I gave him brandy, and he revived a little. Then I wanted to go for help, but he begged me not to leave him alone. So I could only shout and wave my handkerchief. The pains came back and back—and every time he grew weaker. Oh, it was angina. I have seen it before—twice. If I had only had some nitrite of amyl! But there was nothing—nothing I could do.” He paused, and then added timidly, “I am a Catholic; I said some of our prayers.”
He looked gravely into Falloden’s face. Falloden’s eyes met his, and both men remembered—momentarily—the scene in Marmion Quad.
“We must get him down,” said Falloden abruptly. “And there is my mother.”
“I would help you to carry him, of course; but—you see—I can’t.”
Douglas knelt, looking into his father’s face, and Radowitz moved farther away
His delicate skin flushed deeply. Falloden realised for the first time the sling across his shoulder and the helpless hand lying in it. He turned away, searching with his eyes the shadows of the valley. At the moment, the spot where they stood was garishly illuminated by the rapidly receding light, which had already left the lower ground. The grass at their feet, the rocks, the stream, the stretches of heather were steeped and drenched in the last rays of sun which shot upon them in a fierce concentration from the lower edge of a great cloud. But the landmarks below were hard to make out—for a stranger’s eyes.
“You see that cottage—where the smoke is?”