“Look out, Jack,” shrieked Annette, flinging herself on him.
Simultaneously with the shot, a woman's scream rang out and Annette fell back into Maitland's arms. A silence deep as death fell upon the mob.
With a groan McNish dropped from the fence beside the girl.
Annette opened her eyes and, looking up into Maitland's face, whispered: “He didn't get you, Jack. I'm so glad.”
“Oh, Annette, dear girl! He's killed you!”
“It's—all—right—Jack,” she whispered. “I—saved—you.”
Meanwhile McNish, with her hand caught in his, was sobbing: “God, have mercy! She's deed! She's deed!”
Annette again opened her eyes. “Poor Malcolm,” she whispered. “Dear Malcolm.” Then, closing her eyes again, quietly as a tired child, she sank into unconsciousness. The big Scotchman, still kissing her hand, sobbed:
“Puir lassie, puir lassie! Ma God! Ma God! What now? What now?”
“She is dead. The girl is dead.” The word passed from lip to lip among the crowd, which still held motionless and silent.