Kemp was behind him.  He was not prepared for Randy’s sudden stop.  He swerved sharply to the left, slammed into a telegraph pole—­and came back to life to find somebody bending over him.  “Who is looking after the lady, sir?” he managed to murmur.

“Young Paine and Mr. Flippin are carrying her to the house.  You are cut a bit.  Let me tie up your head.”  The Major gave efficient first aid and after that Kemp got to his feet, painfully.  “Is Miss MacVeigh badly hurt?”

“She is conscious, and not in great pain.  I’m not much of a prop to lean on, but I think we can make that hill together.”

They climbed slowly, the man of crutches and the man with the bound-up head.

“It’s like a little bit of over there, Kemp, isn’t it?”

“Yes it as, sir—­many’s the time I’ve seen them helping each other—­master and man.”

When they got to the house, they found Madge on the sofa, and Mrs. Flippin bending over her.  “My husband has gone for the doctor,” she told the Major.  “I think the blood comes from her hand; she must have put it up to save her face.”

“I bent my head,” murmured Madge, “and my hat was broad.  Think what might have happened if I had worn a little hat.”

She had started the sentence lightly but she stopped with a gasp of pain.  “Oh—­my foot——­” she said, “the pain—­is—­dreadful——­”

The Major drew up a chair, and handed his crutches to Randy.  “If you’ll let us take off your shoe, it might help till the doctor comes.”

She fainted dead away while they did it, and came back to life to find her foot bandaged, and her uncut hand held in the firm clasp of the man with the crutches.  He was regarding her with grave gray eyes, but his face lighted as she looked up at him.

“Drink this,” he told her.  “The doctor is on the way, and I think it will help the pain until he comes.”

She liked his voice—­it had a deep and musical quality.  She was glad he was there.  Something in his strength seemed to reach out to her and give her courage.

When the pain began again, he gave her another drink from the glass, and when she drifted off, she came back to the echo of a softly-whistled tune.

“I beg your pardon,” the Major said as she opened her eyes; “it is a bad habit that I permit myself when I have things on my mind.  My men said they always knew by the tune I whistled the mood I was in.  And that there was only one tune they were afraid of.”

“What was that?”

“‘Good-night, Ladies——­’” He threw back his head and laughed.  “When I began on that they knew it was all up with them——­”

She tried to laugh with him, but it was a twisted grin.  “Oh,” she said and began to tremble.  She saw his eyes melt to tenderness.  “Oh, you poor little thing.”

She was conscious after that of the firm hand which held hers.  The deep voice which soothed.  Through all that blinding agony she was conscious of his call to courage—­she wondered if he had called his men like that—­over there——­