The sight arrested all eyes.
The miserable man lay over on his side, ghastly pale, and breathing
laboriously, every breath pumping out the life-blood, that had made a
little pool beside his face.
Mrs. Waugh and Mary L'Oiseau hastened to stoop and raise the sufferer.
The commodore drew near, half stupefied, as he always was in a crisis.
"What--what--what's all this? Who did it? How did it happen?" he asked,
with a look of dull amazement.
"Give me a sofa cushion, Maria, to place under his head. Mary L'Oiseau,
hurry as fast as you can, and send a boy for Dr. Brightwell; tell him to
take the swiftest horse in the stable, and ride for life and death, and
bring the physician instantly, for Dr. Grimshaw is dying! Hurry!"
"Dying? Eh! what did you say, Henrietta?" inquired the commodore, in a
sort of stupid, blind anxiety; for he was unable to comprehend what had
happened.
"Speak to me, Henrietta! What is the matter? What ails Grim?"
"He has ruptured an artery," said Mrs. Waugh, gravely, as she laid the
sufferer gently back upon the carpet and placed the sofa pillow under
his head.
"Ruptured an artery? How did it happen? Grim! Nace! speak to me! How do
you feel? Oh, Heaven! he doesn't speak--he doesn't hear me! Oh,
Henrietta! he is very ill--he is very ill! He must be put to bed at
once, and the doctor sent for! Come here, Maria! Help me to lift your
young master," said the old man, waking up to anxiety.
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