Part 4 (2/2)
Millet swallowed a few drops, and soon the vacant look pa.s.sed from his eyes, and he groaned heavily.
”Huish,” he said hoa.r.s.ely. ”You've given me--my death-blow--hope first--now my life.”
”No, no--no, no!” exclaimed Huish. ”Can you bear for me to leave you now? I'll run for help.”
”Stop,” exclaimed Millet, making an effort to rise, and sinking back with a groan of agony. ”Stop! come closer.”
Huish obeyed, and held the flask once more to his lips, but it was pushed aside.
”Is this manslaughter or murder?” he said, with a bitter smile.
”I protest to heaven,” began Huish.
”Hus.h.!.+ Listen! That poor girl--Mary--now--quick, at once--swear to me by all you hold sacred--you will--at once--make her your wife.”
Millet's face was ghastly pale, and he spoke with difficulty, but one hand now grasped the wrist of Huish with a firm hold, and his eyes were fixed upon those of the man who bent over him with feverish intensity.
”Yes, yes, I will--on my soul, I will,” cried Huish, with frantic vehemence. ”Rob, old fellow, if I could undo--”
”You cannot. Quick, man; swear it--you will marry her--at once.”
”I swear I will,” cried Huish.
”So help you G.o.d.”
”So help me, G.o.d!” exclaimed Huish, ”and help me now,” he added in agony, ”for he is dying.”
”Here--below there--Hi!” shouted a voice from the pathway above.
”What's the matter?”
”Quick, quick, help!” cried Huish, and his appeal was answered by rapid footsteps, the rustling of bushes, and directly after, a short, broad-shouldered young man, with a large head and keen grey eyes, was at his side.
”I say,” he cried; ”struggle up above, broken fence, man killed!”
Huish started back, staring at him with dilated eyes, and then by an effort he exclaimed:
”Quick--run--the nearest doctor, man.”
”Six miles away,” was the sharp reply. ”I'm a sucker--medical stoo,” he added; and pulling off his coat, he rapidly rolled it into a pad for a pillow before proceeding in a business-like way to examine the fallen man's injuries. ”I say, this is bad--arm broken--hip joint out--hold still, old fellow, I won't hurt you,” he said, as his patient moaned.
”You'd better go for help. I'll stay. Leave me that flask; and, I say, just see if my fis.h.i.+ng tackle's all right: I left it up at the top.”
Then, as if inspired by the words uttered by the injured man a few minutes before, he exclaimed: ”I say, I don't know that I ought to let you go; is this manslaughter or murder?”
”No,” moaned Millet, unclosing his eyes, and speaking in a hoa.r.s.e whisper--”my old friend--an accident--sir--an accident.”
”I say, the brandy, man, the brandy,” cried the new-comer. ”By Jove he's fainted.”
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