As Esmeralda sunk unconscious against Trafford’s breast, a sharp cry of horror rose from Varley, and was echoed by Norman, who came up a moment or two afterward. The revolver dropped from Varley’s hand, and he stood staring[325] before him with ashen face and quivering lips. She had come between him and Trafford at the very moment Varley pulled the trigger; there had not even been time for him to divert his aim.

For an instant or two not one of them was capable of realizing what had happened; then, with cry of anguish, Trafford pressed Esmeralda to him, and looked down into her face, which was as composed as if by the hand of death. He saw a line of red trickling over the bosom of her dress, and a groan burst from his lips.

“My God, you’ve killed her!” he exclaimed, hoarsely.

Varley came up with uncertain steps, but Trafford half turned away with his precious burden, as if to prevent Varley from touching her. Norman stood shaking and trembling, and it was Simon who, being the least interested, retained his presence of mind, said:

“P’r’aps she isn’t killed; let us see!”

Trafford knelt down, and with her head still upon his breast, unfastened her blouse.

The blood was oozing from a little wound in her shoulder; he could feel her heart beat, though faintly, under his hand.

“She ain’t dead,” said Simon, judging by the swift look of unspeakable relief upon Trafford’s face. “I thought as how Varley Howard aimed too high to hit her mortal, like. It’s lucky for you, mister, that she come a-tween you, or you’d been a dead ’un. She’s saved your life—if she’s lost her own.”

Varley knelt on the other side of Esmeralda in speechless agony. Simon turned to Norman.

“What’s to be done?” he asked. “They two have lost their wits, and you and me will have to act.”

“We must get her to some place of shelter,” said Norman, huskily.

“That’s so,” said Simon. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and fetch my man; we’ll make a kind of litter and carry her to the hut—p’r’aps we could fix up something out of the things lying about here,” and he looked round.

“Yes—yes, for God’s sake, let us do something!” said Norman.

With some of the débris and a couple of planks from the hut they constructed a litter, Varley assisting them in a kind of stupor. When they carried it to where Trafford still held Esmeralda in his arms, he looked up with bewildered eyes.

“She is alive—she is alive!” he said.

He did not seem to be aware of Norman’s presence, to be[326] conscious of anything but the limp figure lying in his arms. He made a pillow of his coat, and they placed Esmeralda upon the litter and started for the hut, Trafford, as he bore one corner of the stretcher, bending over her with a distraught gaze. They went slowly, picking every step, and almost in silence. Varley walked with bent head and shoulders, crushed by this last blow from the hand of Fate.

They reached the hut at last, and the woman, hearing their steps, came out to meet them; she uttered one cry at sight of the motionless figure of the brave girl, then helped them place her on the bed and silently drew a curtain before it. Trafford sunk on a chair and hid his face in his hands; Varley leaned against the wall as if utterly exhausted, as indeed he was; Simon looked from one to the other grimly.

“I’ll trouble you for that two hundred, Varley Howard,” he said, laconically.

Varley started, drew the bag containing the money from his pocket, and handed it to him without a word.

The woman came from behind the curtain.

“She’s alive,” she said in a low voice, and with her eyes fixed upon the ground. “You’d better fetch a doctor.”

“I will go,” said Norman, abruptly.

Both Trafford and Varley started as if to go also; but Norman waved them back.

“No, no; you stay here. She may want you, if she comes to.”

As he hurried out of the hut, Simon followed him, and Varley and Trafford were left alone.

Presently Trafford felt a tingling sensation in his arm, and saw that the blood was oozing from under his shirt-sleeve, but he paid no attention to it.

Varley went outside, and paced up and down. He saw now that Esmeralda still loved her husband, and that if he had shot him, he would have broken her heart, and so, perhaps, have killed her one way as surely as he had, in all probability, killed her with a bullet. Every now and then he went into the hut and gazed at the curtain with a terrible anxiety, and on one occasion he noticed the blood dropping from Trafford’s arm, and he pointed to it.

“You were hit?” he said.

Trafford looked stupidly at his arm.

“Yes; it is of no consequence,” he said, dully.

Varley got some water in a bowl, and offered to examine and bind up the wound. Trafford made to repulse him for a moment, then submitted with palpable indifference.

[327]

“It is a pity you didn’t kill me outright, Mr. Howard,” he said, bitterly. “It would have been more merciful.”

Varley made no response, but bound up the wound as if he were ministering to a close friend, and then went outside again.

The woman came from the bedside occasionally, but always with the same report: Esmeralda was still unconscious.

The night passed; the dawn broke with exquisite beauty, and the sun shone upon the white and haggard faces of the two men watching and waiting with feverish and almost intolerable anxiety. Presently they saw a party riding up the hill at a furious gallop; they were Norman, the doctor, and Mother Melinda.

The doctor turned the men out, and went with Mother Melinda to the bedside. Trafford withdrew to a little distance from the hut, and sat with his face hidden in his hands, and Norman and Varley leaned against a tree and waited silently for a time. Then Norman said, with difficulty, as if there were a lump in his throat:

“It’s all my fault. If I had told you everything the night I arrived, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Varley said nothing. He felt that if Esmeralda were to die, it mattered little whose fault it was; the burden of her death would lie upon his—Varley’s—soul forever.

After what seemed an interminable time, filled up with a suspense beyond the power of words to describe, the door of the hut opened and the doctor came out. The three men started forward simultaneously. The doctor addressed Varley.

“She is still unconscious,” he said. “Keep up your heart, Varley; the wound isn’t a mortal one. It isn’t the wound I’m afraid of; it’s the shock to the system, and what has gone before. She was dead beat when you—when this happened to her. She’d gone through enough to knock up a strong man, let alone a woman, and she’s just exhausted and played out.” He looked at Trafford as he said this, and Trafford turned aside and stifled a groan. “You’re her husband, sir, Lord Druce tells me. You’d better stay here. You, Varley, and Lord Druce, had better get back to Three Star; I don’t want a crowd round her, and you can do no good. I’ll give you a list of things I want fro............