Colonel Arran stood quietly gazing at him. Suddenly he reeled and stumbled forward against the horse's flank, catching at the mane.
"Are you badly hurt, sir?"
The Colonel turned his dazed eyes on him, then slid forward along the horse's flank. His hands relaxed their hold on the mane, and he fell flat on his face; and, Berkley, still hanging to the bit, dragged the prostrate man over on his back and stared into his deathly features.
"Where did they hit you, sir?"
"Through the liver," he gasped. "It's all right, Berkley. . . .
Don't wait any longer——-"
"I'm not going to leave you."
"You must . . . I'm ended. . . . You haven't a—moment—to lose——"
"Can you put your arms around my neck?"
"There's no time to waste! I tell you to mount and run for it! . . . And—thank you——"
"Put both arms around my neck. . . . Quick! . . . Can you lock your fingers? . . . This damned horse won't stand! Hold fast to me. I'll raise you easily. . . . Get the other leg over the saddle. Lean forward. Now I'll walk him at first—hold tight! . . . Can you hang on, Colonel?"