Chapter 105
"Let his head rest upon your arm," said Luke, hastily. "Mr Portlock, tear my handkerchief into three strips, and give me yours. The poor fellow is bleeding horribly."
"Who's that? Where am I? Stand back, cowards! Fire, then, and be d.a.m.ned."
A low, wailing cry of horror checked him, and Sage Mallow flung herself upon her knees beside the injured man.
"Cyril! Husband!" she cried, wildly. The convict started violently, and drew himself back.
"Sage!" he panted. "You--here?"
"Yes--yes!" she cried. "What is it? Are you hurt?"
"Hurt? Ha--ha--ha!" He laughed a strange, ghastly laugh. "I made a bolt for it. The brutes fired at me--shot me like a dog."
"Don't speak," said Luke, quickly. "Lie still, and let me try to stop this bleeding."
"Yes; stop it quick!" gasped the injured man. "Yes, that's it--in the chest--it felt red hot; but it did not stop me running, doctor. Lucky you were here."
Luke raised his face involuntarily, and the men were face to face.
"Luke Ross!" gasped Cyril; and for a few moments, as Sage and Luke knelt on either side of the wounded man, he gazed from one to the other.
"Got a divorce?" he said, with a harsh laugh. "Are you married?"
"No," cried Portlock, in a loud, emphatic voice. "Sage was coming to see you with me."
"Then--then," panted the wounded man, fiercely, "what does he do here?"
"I came at your father's wish, Cyril Mallow," said Luke, softly, for somehow his own father's words seemed to be repeating themselves in his ear. "I obtained the order."
"For my release?" cried Cyril, wildly. "For a visit," replied Luke.
"Now, take my advice. Be silent; exertion makes your wound bleed more."
"Curse them! no wonder," groaned the unhappy man; and he drew his breath with a low hiss. "G.o.d! it's awful pain."
"Help me to lift him into the fly," whispered Luke to Portlock and the driver.
"Cyril--speak to me," whispered Sage, piteously. "You are not badly hurt?"
"Murdered," he groaned. "Oh, if I had but a rifle and strength."
"Hus.h.!.+" said Luke, sternly, "you are
"There'll be no end of a row about it when the warders come, but I'll chance it, zir. Stop a moment, and I'll open the farther door. It will be easier to get him in."
"Who said warders?" panted Cyril, in excited tones. "Are they here?"
"No, no. Pray be silent," whispered Luke. "Mrs Mallow, you must rise."
"No, no, I will not leave him," cried Sage.
"We are going to try and get him down into the town, Sage dear," said her uncle, gently; "to a doctor, girl."
She suffered her uncle to raise her up, and then the three men bent down over Cyril to bear him to the carriage.
"Stop!" he said, faintly. "I am not ready. Something--under--my head-- the blood--"
Luke raised his head, and he breathed more freely, but lay with his eyes closed, the lids quivering slightly, as Sage knelt beside him once again, and wiped the clammy dew from his brow.
"It don't matter at present, gentlemen," said the driver. "I couldn't drive through this fog. We should be upset."
Just then shouts were heard close at hand, and the injured man opened his eyes and fixed them in the direction of the sound.
"Demons!" he muttered, just as there was another shot, and a loud shriek as of some one in agony.
"Another down," panted Cyril, with great effort, as he seemed to be listening intently.
"How long will it take us to get back to the town?" said Luke, quickly.
"Two hours, sir, if the fog holds up. If it goes on like this no man can say."
"Mr Portlock," said Luke, as he motioned to Sage to take his place in supporting the wounded man's head, "what is to be done? I am no surgeon, and my bandaging is very rough. He is bleeding to death, I am sure," he whispered. "We must have a surgeon. Had I not better summon help?"
"Where from?"
"From the prison. A shout would bring the warders."
"I hear what you say," cried Cyril, fiercely. "Sage, that man is going to betray me to those blood-hounds."
"Luke!" cried Sage, who was almost mad with grief.
"There is no surgical help to be got but from the prison," said Luke, calmly. "I proposed to send for it by the warders."
"Too late," said the injured man, in a low voice. "Fifty surgeons could not save me now. Let me be."
"What shall I do?" whispered Luke.
"Poor fellow! We had better call the men."
"It would kill him," groaned Luke; and he stood hesitating, Cyril watching him the while with a sneering laugh upon his lips.
"It's a sovereign reward, lawyer," he said, faintly. "Are you going to earn it?"
For answer Luke knelt down there in the mist, and poured a few drops of spirit from his flask between the wounded man's lips.
He was about to rise, but Cyril uttered a painful sob and caught at his hand.
"I didn't mean it," he whispered, "I'm a bad one, and the words came.
I'd say G.o.d bless you--but--no good--from me."