“Come, we must get away from this at once,” said Pedro, turning to Manuela. “No time for explanations. Are you hurt?”
“No; thank God. Let us go,” replied the girl, who was pale and haggard, as she staggered towards them.
“Take my arm,” said Lawrence, presenting his wounded limb.
The girl pointed with trembling hand to the blood.
“It is nothing—a mere scratch,” said Lawrence.
In his anxiety he forgot to speak in Spanish. Manuela appeared as if about to sink with fear. He caught her, lifted her in his arms as if she had been a little child, and, following Pedro’s lead, left the place which had been the scene of so many terrible events.
In the outskirts of the town there was a large low building of mud or sun-dried bricks, which had not been overthrown by the earthquake. To this Pedro conducted his companions. They found room in the place, though it was nearly full of survivors in all conditions of injury,—from those who had got mere scratches and bruises, to those who had been so crushed and mangled that life was gradually ebbing away. There seemed to be about fifty people in the room, and every minute more were being brought in.
Here Lawrence set down his burden, who had by that time quite recovered, and turned quickly to the guide.
“Come, Pedro,” he said, “I can be of use here; but we must have my own wound dressed first. You can do it, I doubt not.”
Pedro professed to be not only able but willing. Before he did it, however, he whispered in a low tone, yet with much emphasis, to Manuela—