The dreamy sensation of unreality passed away for the moment, and
Richard Frayne flung himself upon his knees beside his cousin, to raise
his head, after hurriedly taking out and folding a handkerchief to form
a bandage; while, after eagerly watching him for a few moments, one of
the two pupils turned and dashed off as hard as he could run in the
direction of the town.
But the bandage was too short; and, after looking wildly up at his
companion, Richard tore off his necktie, made a pad of the handkerchief,
and bound it firmly to the back of his cousin's head, conscious, as he
did so, of the fact that the bone was dented in by its contact with the
stone.
"Go for help!" cried Richard, huskily.
"No, no; I can't leave you now," said the other, who stood there, white
and trembling. "Andrews has gone for a doctor. Somebody else is sure
to come. Oh, Frayne! what have you done?"
The lad looked up at him wildly, but he could not speak. The strange
sensation of everything being unreal came over him again, and, in a
dreamy way, he saw the coming of his aunt and uncle to ask him the same
question; while Mark was lying, pale and cold, lifeless in his room.
There was the rushing, murmuring sound of the river from close at hand,
and the deep tones of the great Cathedral bell striking the hour; but to
Richard's excited imagination it was tolling for his cousin's death, and
thought succeeded thought now in horrible sequence.
He had in his passion killed Mark Frayne. It was in fair fight; but
would people believe all this? They had quarrelled, and about that
money trouble. Would people believe his version, or take the side of
the dead?
Then a black cloud of misery and despair seemed to close him in, and he
knelt there as it stunned--unable to think, unable to move. He could
only gaze down at the pale, rigid features before him, drawing back
involuntarily at last as he awoke to the fact that his companion had
been down to the river to fill his hat with water, with which he began
to bathe Mark Frayne's face.
Then came a buzz of voices as boys and men approached. Two or three
people began at once to ask questions, which Richard Frayne could not
answer, while his companion's replies were confused and wild.
"Yes, he's dead enough," said someone, coarsely, and the words seemed to
echo through Richard's brain.
Then there was hurried talk about carrying him back to the town, calls
for a gate or a shutter, and the little crowd constantly on the
increase, till the pressure grew suffocating.