MY LADY OF THE SOUTH
lying before us was to him merely that of a strange man. He dropped upon his knees, turned the ghastly face up to the light, and pressed his ear against the gray jacket.
"He's not clane dead, yit, sor," he declared, "there's a bate to his heart."
The unexpected words brought me instantly to myself, and I caught up the limp hand, feeling eagerly for the pulse. It was throbbing weakly, and the very touch of it afforded me hope. I liked this Donald; whatever he might be to Jean Denslow he had won my respect, and I would save his life if possible—save it even though he stood between me and the one woman. I tore the neckerchief from about my throat.
"Have you water in your canteen, O'Brien? Here, hand it over."
I bathed the white face in it, washing away the blood upon his throat, thus disclosing the nature of the wound. It was not deep, not even dangerous; evidently the knife had slipped, inflicting a jagged scratch, yet missing the vital point aimed at. O'Brien lifted the head on his arm, his hand pressing back the thick hair, streaked with gray.
"He's got a humpin' crack here, sor," he said, "an' it's bled a lot. That's loikely what laid him out rather then the pin-prick ye're clanin'."
I took a glance at it, touching the congealed blood and matted hair with my fingers.
"Yes," I decided, "he was struck in the dark suddenly, and the force of the blow, or else the impact of some body, knocked him backward. His head hit the stone, rendering him unconscious, and the party attacking,
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