With a smothered cry Diana flew across the room to where my lord lay in a pitiful little heap, but before her was Richard. He fell on his knees beside the still figure, feeling for the wound.
Diana, on the other side, looked across at him.
“’Tis his shoulder, sir—an old wound. Oh, he is not—he cannot be—dead?”
Richard shook his head dumbly and gently laid bare the white shoulder. The wound was bleeding very slightly, and they bound it deftly betwixt them, with their united handkerchiefs and a napkin seized from the table.
“’Tis exhaustion, I take it,” frowned Richard, his hand before the pale lips. “He is breathing still.”
Over her shoulder Diana shot an order:
“One of you men, please fetch water and cognac!”
“At once, madam!” responded Andrew promptly, and hurried out.
She bent once more over my lord, gazing anxiously into his face.
“He will live? You—are sure? He—he must have rid all the way from Maltby—for me!” She caught her breath on a sob, pressing one lifeless hand to her lips.
“For you, madam?” Richard looked an inquiry.
She blushed.
“Yes—he—we—I———”
“I see,” said Richard gravely.
She nodded.
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