Then
Trelyon got up on the rocks and calmly looked at his dripping clothes.
"You are a nice little beast, you are!" he said to the small boy, who
had swallowed a good deal of salt water, but was otherwise quite
unhurt. "How do you expect I am going home in these trousers? Perhaps
your mother'll pay me for a new pair, eh? And give you a jolly good
thrashing for tumbling in? Here's half a crown for you, you young
ruffian! and if I catch you on these rocks again, I'll throw you in
and let you swim for it: see if I don't."
He walked up to the carriage, shaking himself, and putting on his coat
as he went with great difficulty: "Mrs. Rosewarne, I must walk back: I
can't think of--"
He uttered a short cry. Wenna was lying as one dead in her mother's
arms, Mrs. Rosewarne vainly endeavoring to revive her. He rushed down
the rocks again to a pool and soaked his handkerchief in the water:
then he went hurriedly back to the carriage and put the cold
handkerchief on her temples and on her face.
"Oh, Mr. Trelyon, do go away or you will get your death of cold," Mrs.
Rosewarne said. "Leave Wenna to me. See, there is a gentleman who will
lend you his horse, and you will get to your hotel directly."
He did not even answer her. His own face was about as pale as that of
the girl before him, and hers was that of a corpse.
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