'I do not know. Are you hurt?'
'My foot is sprained. I cannot walk; but no bones are broken, of that I have satisfied myself. How goes my father?'
'He is seriously injured.'
'He did wrong to try and open the door. The carriage must have fallen over on him.'
'Will you remain here whilst I go back to him?
'Certainly. The moss is soft as a cushion on this stone.'
'Your father, I fear, is seriously hurt. As you say, he was leaning out of the window when the coach turned over, and it went down on the side where he was.'
'Bring me my cloak from the chaise. It is chilly, and the spot is desolate. Il me donne les frissons.' She spoke with wonderful composure. She might have been on a picnic, and the dish with the chicken pie broken; yet she had narrowly escaped death herself, and her father was lying dead a few feet from her. The young man looked at her face, a little surprised at her perfect coolness. The face was wax-like, of transparent whiteness; there was no colour in it. But then she was cold and possibly frightened, though betraying no fear in her manner. Her features were regular and of extraordinary beauty. Her eyes were large and the lashes long; her hair abundant and black. Of emotion in her face there was none.
'I remember my father said he had suffered from the rheumatism. Pray take him from off the grass.' The young man thought to himself, 'He will never suffer from that more;' but he made no answer. He went back to the man lying on the turf, knelt over him, and examined him. Joyce stood by with arms folded.
'Is there any house near to which this gentleman could be removed? he asked.