'Only a few hours—he is hurt internally. They were both down on the rails, you know: I saw the whole thing; and he flung up the old man with one hand—I never saw anything so splendidly done—but the wheel of the engine caught him, and before they could stop the train the mischief was done.'
'Will he suffer? Can nothing be done for him? Abercrombie, I would give half my fortune to save the life of that man.'
'He will not suffer long,' returned Dr. Abercrombie kindly. He was a rough, hard-featured Scotchman, but no man had a better heart, as Michael knew. 'I will do all I can for him, Burnett, for his own sake as well as yours. I think he wants to speak to you, but he cannot talk much; it is agony to him.'
And Michael stepped up to the bed. In the emergency he had regained his old calmness of manner, and as Cyril's eyes were fixed on his face, he bent over him and said gently:
'Do not speak, my dear fellow; I know what you wish to say. I will telegraph for her at once.'
Cyril's damp, cold hand closed over his.
'Thanks, thanks! that is what I wanted. She would like it, and it will do no harm.'
The last few words seemed intended for a question, and Michael answered without hesitation.
'Harm! she would never forgive us if we did not send for her.'
Then a faint light came into Cyril's eyes.