“We may as well try,” he said, and began to chafe her forehead. “Here, take the whiskey—let it trickle, so, between her teeth. Don’t spill any more than you can help,” he added.
“Has she been shot?” asked Gethryn.
“Crushed, maybe.”
“Poor little thing, look at her roll of music!” said Gethryn, wiping a few drops of blood from her pallid face, and glancing compassionately at the helpless, dust-covered figure.
“I’m afraid it’s no use—”
“Give her some more whiskey, quick!” interrupted the stranger.
Gethryn tremblingly poured a few more drops between the parted lips. A faint color came into her temples. She moved, shivered from head to foot, and then, with a half-choked sob, opened her eyes.
“Mon Dieu, comme je souffre!”
“Where do you suffer?” said Gethryn gently.
“The arm; I think it is broken.”