"Hurt?" repeated the girl, vaguely. "Hurt? How should he be hurt?"
She shivered, and gripped her hand desperately. Could it be that the High God had been deaf to her prayers?
Sir Ralph's face went as pale as hers; for all he knew of Kingswell's condition was that he still breathed, and that his hat had saved his head from being cut. Whether the skull was broken or not, he did not know. He braced himself, and smiled.
"My dear," he said, "he is not seriously hurt, so do not stand like that—for God's sake!"
At the last words his voice lost its note of composure, and broke shrilly. He caught her to him. "Rip me," he cried, "but if you act so when he is simply knocked over, what will you do if he ever gets a real wound!"
The girl was comforted. Tears sprang to her eyes, and the blood returned to her cheeks. She clung to the baronet and sobbed against his shoulder. Presently she looked up.
"Take me to him," she begged, "or bring him here."
"So you love this Bernard Kingswell?" inquired her father, looking steadily into her face.
Her gleaming eyes did not waver from his gaze. "Yes," she replied, quietly.
The man turned away, took his blood-wet sword from the stool, eyed it dully, and leaned it against the wall. He was trying to imagine what the lad's death would mean to his daughter's future; but he could only see that it would mean a few more years for himself. He started guiltily, and returned to his daughter. His face was desperately grim.