“The house is on fire!” she cried. “The smoke drove us downstairs, and—Oh, you are shot!”
“A mere flesh wound,” Menzies answered huskily. “Tie it up for me with a strip of your skirt.”
With trembling fingers she obeyed.
“The worse, Andrew!” she pleaded—“tell me the worst! I am a brave woman; I can bear it.”
I did not hear Menzies’ reply, for he quickly led his wife into a darkened room adjoining; but I had a glimpse of his face, and it seemed to have aged years in the last minute.
“Denzil!”
I recognized Flora’s voice, and turning, I found her at my elbow. Her cheeks were white, except for a burning red spot in the middle of each. Her lovely eyes gazed into mine with a look of deepest affection, of heart-rending fear that she could not disguise.
“Come!” I whispered hoarsely.
I drew her past the little group of men to the far end of the hall, where the staircase screened us from the light of the candle. How to begin, what to say, I did not know. With one arm about her slender form, I pressed kisses on her lips and forehead.
“My darling!” I cried. “Oh, the pity of it—the pity of it!”