My heart stopped with the horror of it; my whole being
fell to pieces at the agony of it. I remember
running from it as from the gates of hell. I
remember reeling on the stairs. I remember a headlong
fall. I remember no more.
It was Jack.
IN THE MOORLANDS
I was in bed, there was no doubt about that, and a
strange sort of bed too, for it moved lightly and
deliciously through the keen, open air like the magic
carpet of the Eastern tale. The bedposts at my
feet were most curiously carved into life-like images
of warriors, so life-like, indeed, that when the one
on the right turned its shaggy head and spoke to the
one on the left, I was not shocked and scarcely surprised.
Bed it was, however, for mother’s soft, smooth
hand was on my cheek, and under the balm of its touch
I went off to sleep again.
When my eyes opened again, the mists had cleared out
of them and I was no longer in the land of shadows.
The carven bedposts were Highlanders; the bed was
a litter slung between four of them; the touch was
hers. Somebody spoke, the Highlanders came to
a halt, and Margaret bent over me. Her face was
pale, grave, and anxious.
“Are you better, Oliver?” she whispered.
“As right as rain,” I answered, pushing
my new trouble behind me and speaking stoutly because
of the whiteness of her face.
“Try to sleep again. You’ve had a
bad fall, and there’s an ugly cut in your skull.”
“Indeed, I’ll do no such thing,”
was my reply. “I don’t want carrying
like a great baby, and I do want my breakfast.
I’m as empty as a drum.”
“Can you stand?”
“Sure of it, and also hop, skip, jump, and,
above all, eat and drink with any man alive.
So, if you can make these men-women understand you,
tell them I’m very grateful, but I’ve
had enough.”
The four tousled warriors were easily made to understand
what I wanted, and, stout and strong as they were,
welcomed the end of their labours with broad grins
of satisfaction. They lowered me to the ground,
and immediately Margaret’s hands were outstretched
to help me to my feet. But for the black death
between us, it would have been new life indeed to see
the colour and sunshine creeping back to her face,
and to hear her whispered “Thank God!”
My head was bumming and throbbing, but nothing to
speak of. The gash was behind and above my right
ear, so I must have somersaulted down the stairs.
Margaret, as I learned later, had bathed and bandaged
the wound, and after my recovery of consciousness,
it only gave me the happy trouble of persuading Margaret
that it gave me no trouble.
I stamped and shook myself experimentally, took a
few strides, and jumped once or twice, Margaret watching
me as curiously and carefully as a hen watches her
first chicken.
“Do mind, Oliver!” she said. “It
bled horribly, and you’ll start it again.”
