They knelt around the seemingly lifeless figure, and Old Geordie took out a little flask of brandy, which he had put into his pocket on starting from home, saying to Old Ann, "I'll take this, however; no one knows but there may be sore need of it."
He now managed to get a little of the restorative within the livid lips; and after what seemed a long, long time, there was an evident attempt to swallow. It was more like a spasm of pain than a natural effort; but it showed that the living spark had not quite gone out. They all now set to work, rubbing the hands, chafing the feet, bathing the temples with brandy, and again contriving to get a little of the liquid swallowed.
"We must carry him home," said Geordie; "we shall never get him round here, in the cold wind. Sister will wrap him up right well, and we men will carry him."
And so the melancholy-looking procession moved away from the shining snow-cavern, the dogs trailing along behind in a state of deep depression, because they did not like the look of the long muffled figure helplessly borne along by the four silent men. Alice tried to get on in advance, to give warning to her mother, and to prepare the hot bed, hot blankets, and hot drinks, on which she rested her hopes. But with all her efforts, her spent strength could make small progress.
"Don't distress yourself so, Alice," said Mark Wilson, who was anxiously watching her spasmodic efforts; "we shall be there as soon as you."
"I must do something to help," she replied, with quivering lip.
"Thou go and help the lile maiden," said Geordie compassionately; "she'll drop soon, and we shall e'en have them both to carry home to mother. One is bad enough."
But for this encouragement from the old servant, Mark's shy reserve would have withheld him from aiding the poor girl. She had dropped behind by this time, in utter prostration of her over-strained powers. It was well that this strong and willing arm came to the rescue. How confidingly she leaned on him! How she trusted her weakness to his strength! She felt as if she could have done anything with that arm to aid, that voice to encourage, that look of understanding sympathy, tender and true, to comfort her. Will they ever forget that mournful walk? Never—as long as they live.
Young Mat had by this time returned from his bold but fruitless expedition to the distant hamlet, and had caught sight of the dark group of figures winding along over the white fields. He thought that all was indeed over. It looked like nothing but one of those mournful processions which he was accustomed to see creeping along the side of the hills, up out of one valley, and down into another, on the old paved pathways leading to the common centre in the church-yard which are expressively called in the language of the country, "corpse-roads."
"They are coming along, mother," said he, entering the kitchen, and gently going up to his mother's chair; "they have found Miles, I think, but I don't rightly know how."