He stirred, turned on one elbow, and fell back with a savage start of pain.
"Damnation, what's this? What have they done to my arm? Who—? I say—I beg your pardon——!"
Sudden sanity came into his eyes, and he lay and stared at the girl's face. It seemed that these two were fascinated momentarily by each other's eyes. Benham moistened his lips, and made an effort to explain himself.
"I must have had a crack on the head. Of course, what am I thinking of! The scoundrel shot at me from behind a tree. Where's Dick? Can you see anything of a horse?"
She looked up and down the lane, and her eyes returned slowly to his face. They were very solemn eyes, big and dark, like the eyes of a southern woman.
"I can't see any horse. Have the French landed——?"
"The French?"
"Yes."
"Nothing so respectable. I was chasing horse-thieves, and one of them shot me from behind that yew-tree. I'm Benham of Rush Heath."
Her solemnity took the colour of compassion.