“Mother, punch my ribs.”

He stretched himself flat for the operation, and shut his mouth.

“Hard, mother!—­and quick!—­I can’t hold out long.”

“Oh!  Robert,” moaned the petrified woman “strike you?”

“Straight in the ribs.  Shut your fist and do it—­quick.”

My dear!—­my boy!—­I haven’t the heart to do it!”

“Ah!” Robert’s chest dropped in; but tightening his muscles again, he said, “now do it—­do it!”

“Oh! a poke at a poor fire puts it out, dear.  And make a murderess of me, you call mother!  Oh! as I love the name, I’ll obey you, Robert.  But!—­there!”

“Harder, mother.”

“There!—­goodness forgive me!”

“Hard as you can—­all’s right.”

“There!—­and there!—­oh!—­mercy!”

“Press in at my stomach.”

She nerved herself to do his bidding, and, following his orders, took his head in her hands, and felt about it.  The anguish of the touch wrung a stifled scream from him, at which she screamed responsive.  He laughed, while twisting with the pain.

“You cruel boy, to laugh at your mother,” she said, delighted by the sound of safety in that sweet human laughter.  “Hey! don’t ye shake your brain; it ought to lie quiet.  And here’s the spot of the wicked blow—­and him in love—­as I know he is!  What would she say if she saw him now?  But an old woman’s the best nurse—­ne’er a doubt of it.”

She felt him heavy on her arm, and knew that he had fainted.  Quelling her first impulse to scream, she dropped him gently on the pillow, and rapped to rouse up her maid.

The two soon produced a fire and hot water, bandages, vinegar in a basin, and every crude appliance that could be thought of, the maid followed her mistress’s directions with a consoling awe, for Mrs. Boulby had told her no more than that a man was hurt.

“I do hope, if it’s anybody, it’s that ther’ Moody,” said the maid.

“A pretty sort of a Christian you think yourself, I dare say,” Mrs. Boulby replied.

“Christian or not, one can’t help longin’ for a choice, mum.  We ain’t all hands and knees.”

“Better for you if you was,” said the widow.  “It’s tongues, you’re to remember, you’re not to be.  Now come you up after me—­and you’ll not utter a word.  You’ll stand behind the door to do what I tell you.  You’re a soldier’s daughter, Susan, and haven’t a claim to be excitable.”

“My mother was given to faints,” Susan protested on behalf of her possible weakness.

“You may peep.”  Thus Mrs. Boulby tossed a sop to her frail woman’s nature.

But for her having been appeased by the sagacious accordance of this privilege, the maid would never have endured to hear Robert’s voice in agony, and to think that it was really Robert, the beloved of Warbeach, who had come to harm.  Her apprehensions not being so lively as her mistress’s, by reason of her love being smaller, she was more terrified than comforted by Robert’s jokes during the process of washing off the blood, cutting the hair from the wound, bandaging and binding up the head.