'You cannot move!' sobbed the child, raining kisses on his hands.
'I am stiff from the cold; nothing more,' said his father, faintly.
Then he looked at the men.
'One of you, if it be possible, go to the Burg. Tell the Countess von Szalras that her son is safe. You need not speak of me. Bring the physician here when it is morning; but say nothing of me to-night. Give me a little of your wine——'
His lips were blue, he felt faint; in his own heart he said to himself, 'I am hurt unto death.'
Bela had thrown his arms about him, and, trembling like a leaf, clung there and sobbed aloud deliriously.
'You are hurt, you are hurt, and all for me!' he sobbed, as he saw his father placed on the truckle bed set aside for any belated wanderer on the hills.
Sabran smiled on him.
'My child, do not grieve so; it is nothing; a mere momentary wrench; do not even think of it. No, no! I am not in pain.'
The wine revived him, and restored his strength, and he sought to conceal his injury for the boy's sake.