"Stand back," he cried, his voice ringing out like a trumpet, "would
you let the child die in the street?"
They fell back before him, a whisper passing from lip to lip. "It's
the bishop!" they said, and some ran before him to open the gate and
some to ring the bell of the great house before which the accident had
occurred.
Mechanically the bishop thanked them, but he looked at none of
them. His eyes were fixed upon the face that lay against his shoulder,
the blood dripping slowly from a cut on one side of the head.
The servant who opened the door stared for an instant wonderingly, at
his master with the child in his arms, and at the throng pressing
curiously after them, but the next moment he recovered from his
amazement and, admitting the bishop, politely but firmly shut out the
eager throng that would have entered with him. A lank, rough-haired
dog attempted to slink in at the bishop's heels, but the servant gave
him a kick that made him draw back with a yelp of pain, and he took
refuge under the steps where he remained all night, restless and
miserable, his quick ears yet ever on the alert for a voice or a step
that he knew.
As the door closed behind the bishop, he exclaimed,
"Call Mrs. Martin, Brown, and then send for the doctor. This boy was
hurt at our very door.
Pages:
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79