CHAPTER VIII

THE RESCUE

"She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gazed and sighéd deep, And there I shut her sad, wild eyes-- So kissed to sleep.

"... And I awoke, and found me here, On the cold hillside." --JOHN KEATS.

Rapid transit through the night air, and the pain of her open wounds, brought back consciousness to Millie.

She was light and small, but for all that, she was some weight to carry far; and when she began to writhe and twist in his hold, Bert was obliged to call a halt. He sat down, after a few ineffectual attempts to soothe her, on a hummock of ground by the roadside, cradling her as easily as he could upon his knees.

"What's happened? What's happened?" she began to stammer, evidently not quite knowing what she said. "It's dark! it's dark! Light the candle, one of you! ... O-o-oh!"

It was a long-drawn wail of agony.

Bert was very white. His heart was hammering, but the heat and wild rage of the past half-hour had passed away, and now he was all gathered into himself like a coiled spring. Everything, he believed, hung upon his ability to make the most of this chance, this hour that he had snatched for himself. The awkward self-consciousness which held him, as a rule, tongue-tied before her, was clean gone; only the concentrated force of his will remained.

Drawing his flask from his pocket, he poured out some raw spirit shakily, his left arm supporting the girl's head in the crook of the elbow. He administered a mouthful. She gasped, and refused more; but she had swallowed it. He waited a moment, with outward composure, and then said quietly:

"Millie, d'you know me?"

She started, and began to struggle in his hold.

"It's Bert," he said steadily; and to his unfeigned and stupefying astonishment, her struggles ceased.

"I thought--'twas Otis," she whispered, so low that he could hardly hear.

"Well, it's not," he murmured, trembling; "it's me. Listen! You've been cruel knocked about--d'you hear?"

"Yes; the--old--woman--"

"I know, my girl, I know! I got up through the roof, an' fetched you away. You're safe now; there's only me. D'you understand?"

There came an almost incredible whisper: "They said you'd gone away ... to the cross-roads..."

One short laugh of triumph escaped him.

"No fear," he murmured consolingly. "I was on hand. I'm going to take you to my place, and get you fixed up, and fetch the doctor to you. But look here, Millie, it'll make folks talk. Jus' say you'll marry me, an' that'll set things right. That'll give a reason why I should be looking after you."

He paused, his ear almost at her lips, straining for her reply.

"I'm goin' to die," she whispered at last. He barely heard.

"Well, till you die, can't I look after you, Millie?"

"If you like," murmured Millie indifferently, as she lapsed again into stupor.

William the Conqueror, crowned king of England, after desperate and apparently foolhardy invasion, felt perhaps much the same emotions as coursed through Bert Mestaer, sitting there in the dark, by the wayside, the half-dead form of a half-grown girl upon his knees.

He raised his eyes to the star-gleam above them, and emotions hitherto unknown laid hands upon him, thrilling his nerve-centres with a triumph that was almost agony. A long minute elapsed before he could collect himself enough to rise and continue his journey. No amount of guardians, no letters from England, he told himself, could take her from him now.

Yesterday he had practically no hopes, only a dogged determination not to give in. To-night he was master of the world.

* * * * * * * *

Anna was not a good-tempered woman, but neither was she an inhuman one. She was very angry at being aroused by Bert out of her first sleep; but she detected something unusual in his manner.

"I got something to show you downstairs in the parlour," he said, "an' when you've seen it, I don't much fancy you'll want to go to bed again."

So she lumbered down the stairs, and into the little parlour which had been Mrs. Mestaer's pride; and on the ample sofa, among the blood-stained linen, lay what she took to be the corpse of Millie Lutwyche.

"You got to help me make her swallow some brandy," he said, "and then you got to do what you can for her while I gallop for Dr. Fraser; but don't you meddle with that arm, because it's dislocated."

"Vrouw Lutwyche's carving?" asked Anna, with venom.

"That's it," returned Bert, pouring the brandy.

"Drunken sow! I hope you see now, Hubert, where it is the drink leads to."

"I see! I'm going to swear off drink for ever now."

"She's past brandy," said Anna, hanging over the prostrate girl.

"Nonsense!" said Bert shortly; and he managed to make her swallow a table-spoonful. "Anna," he said, "you shall have a silk gown on my wedding-day."

"If you're going to marry a willow-shaving, may the day never dawn," said Anna tartly.

But she handled the misused girl tenderly enough, for hers was a maternal heart, though soured by spinsterhood; and Bert, when he saw her set about it, turned away with haste to the stable.

Before setting out on his long ride, he came back to warn Anna not to admit anybody on any pretext while he was away; and arranged that when he returned with the doctor he would give a certain number of signal taps upon the window.

Then, springing to the saddle, he dashed away through the night, his wild heart drumming to the music of the flying hoofs, and his imaginings soaring to the purple velvet dome of heaven.