"Then you can sit on the grass," continued the friendly porter, "while we bring the young man round. You are not much hurt, miss; that's a blessing." And then he hurried off, and Lilian, shaken and miserable, and bruised all over, sank down on a patch of long grass.
She remembered afterwards how gay the poppies looked, then she hid her eyes and sobbed, as a broken inert form was carried past her.
"In the midst of life we are in death." The words came to her, and she said them over and over again. "In the midst of life we are in death." Slow, stumbling footsteps approaching, but she dare not look up. How could she know what ghastly burden they were carrying.
"Steady, you fellows. Lay him down and put something under his head. No, there is nothing to be done; but, poor chap, he will not suffer. I must see to that broken leg now."
"Perhaps this young lady will stop a bit," observed the friendly porter. "Help me a moment, mate, while I shift this 'ere jacket under his head. If we had only a drop of something—not that it would be any good."
Surely they were not leaving her alone with a dying man. Lilian started up in sudden terror; then a feeble voice arrested her.
"Don't go, miss—please don't leave me; you heard what that chap said"—and here a pair of boyish blue eyes looked pitifully at her; then a great wave of womanly sympathy made Lilian forget her bruises and nervous fears.
Could that rigid-looking figure—that colourless face with the grey shade of death already stealing over the features—be her light-hearted and officious fellow-traveller? A sob broke from Lilian's lips.
"Oh, I am so sorry—so sorry!"