Blake must have been an eyewitness of the whole thing, he thought, as he tried to elbow his way through horrified men and hysterical women. If he could only find him! And then a very stout man in a navvy's garb blocked up his passage.
'Is the poor old man killed?' Michael asked; but he feared what the answer would be. Was the gray-headed sinner summoned in this terrible manner to the bar of his offended Judge?
'Lord bless you, sir!' returned the man, 'he is as right as possible; the train did not touch him. It is the other poor fellow that is done for, I expect. Me and my mate have just got him out.'
A sudden horrible, almost sickening sensation of fear came to Michael.
'Oh, my God! not that, not that!' burst from his lips as he literally fought his way down the platform. 'Let me pass, sir! I believe I know him!' he cried hoarsely, and the man in pity to his white face drew back.
There was a motionless figure lying on the bench at the other end, surrounded by porters and strangers. Michael darted towards it, but when he caught sight of the face he uttered a groan. Alas, alas! he knew it too well.
'Give me place,' he said, almost fiercely; 'that dead man is my friend.'
'He is not dead, Burnett,' observed a gentleman, who was supporting Cyril's head; 'but he is badly hurt, poor fellow! We must get him away at once.'
'Thank Heaven it is you, Abercrombie!' returned Michael excitedly; 'he is safer with you than with any man alive.'
But Dr. Abercrombie shook his head gravely.