Mrs. Carter was by his side in an instant. His eyes were closed, but opening them slightly, and seeing her sympathizing looks, a faint smile illumined his ashy-pale features.
“Ask some of these people,” whispered Mrs. Carter, “to help you carry him into the house.”
He seemed to hear her, for his eyes opened again and his lips moved, though they gave forth no sound.
“What’s the m-m-m-matter, Jack?”
Feeling a hand on my shoulder, I turned and saw my friend Charley.
“What, you in the city! You are just in time. We want to take this gentleman into Mr. Carter’s.”
Charley and I took hold of his head and shoulders, some volunteers his body and limbs, and, lifting him gently, we moved towards the house. Some papers fell out of his breast-pocket as we raised him from the ground, which Charley gathered together and put into his own pocket for the time being.
“Where shall we take him?” I inquired, as we entered the hall.
“Up-stairs, into the front room. Here, this way,” said Mrs. Carter. “Alice,” said she, suddenly stopping midway on the stairs, “send for the doctor, instantly. This way,—gently. Ah, here we are at last! This room. There, lay him on that bed. Thank you, gentlemen. Now, Lucy dear, bring me some water and towels. Thank you. Don’t be so alarmed, child; he will soon revive.” And she gently passed a corner of the moistened towel over his soiled and blood-stained face. At this he opened his eyes for an instant, and looked up into Mrs. Carter’s face with a smile of languid gratitude, and then, closing them again, soon began to breathe heavily.
“He is asleep, girls; you had best leave him now to these gentlemen and myself. The doctor will soon be here, I hope. When did you reach the city, Mr. Frobisher?” asked she, in a sick-room whisper, turning to Charley.