“There’s folks coming at last!” the porter exclaimed, turning around excitedly.  “They’ve been a time and no mistake.  The village isn’t a quarter of a mile away.  Did you find a flask, sir?”

Gerald made no answer.  The dressing-case once more was closed, and his hand pressed upon the lid.  The porter turned the light upon his face and whistled softly.

“You’re about done yourself, sir,” he remarked.  “Hold up.”

He caught the young man in his arms.  There was another roar in Gerald’s ears besides the roar of the wind.  He had never fainted in his life, but the feeling was upon him now—­a deadly sickness, a swaying of the earth.  The porter suddenly gave a little cry.

“If I’m not a born idiot!” he exclaimed, drawing a bottle from the pocket of his coat with his disengaged hand.  “There’s whisky here.  I was taking it home to the missis for her rheumatism.  Now, then.”

He drew the cork from the bottle with his teeth and forced some of the liquid between the lips of the young man.  The voices now were coming nearer and nearer.  Gerald made a desperate effort.

“I am all right,” he declared.  “Let’s look after him.”

They groped their way towards the unconscious man, Gerald still gripping the dressing-case with both hands.  There were no signs of any change in his condition, but he was still breathing heavily.  Then they heard a shout behind, almost in their ears.  The porter staggered to his feet.

“It’s all right now, sir!” he exclaimed.  “They’ve brought blankets and a stretcher and brandy.  Here’s a doctor, sir.”

A powerful-looking man, hatless, and wrapped in a great ulster, moved towards them.

“How many are there of you?” he asked, as he bent over Mr. Dunster.

“Only we two,” Gerald replied.  “Is my friend badly hurt?”

“Concussion,” the doctor announced.  “We’ll take him to the village.  What about you, young man?  Your face is bleeding, I see.”

“Just a cut,” Gerald faltered; “nothing else.”

“Lucky chap,” the doctor remarked.  “Let’s get him to shelter of some sort.  Come along.  There’s an inn at the corner of the lane there.”

They all staggered along, Gerald still clutching the dressing-case, and supported on the other side by an excited and somewhat incoherent villager.

“Such a storm as never was,” the latter volunteered.  “The telegraph wires are all down for miles and miles.  There won’t be no trains running along this line come many a week, and as for trees—­why, it’s as though some one had been playing ninepins in Squire Fellowes’s park.  When the morning do come, for sure there will be things to be seen.  This way, sir.  Be careful of the gate.”