"They ha' killed him!" she said. "How is it, as it is na him?"
There was neither light nor help nearer than "The Crown" itself, and when her brain became clearer, she remembered this. Without light and assistance, she could do nothing; she could not even see what hurt he had sustained. Dead or dying, he must lie here until she had time to get help.
She took off her shawl, and folding it, laid his head gently upon it. Then she put her lips to his ear.
"Feyther," she said, "I'm goin' to bring help to thee. If tha con hear me, stir thy hond."
He did not stir it, so she disengaged her arm as gently as possible, and, rising to her feet, went on her way.
There were half a dozen men in the bar-room when she pushed the door inward and stood upon the threshold. They looked up in amazement.
"Those on yo' as want to help a deeing mon," she said, "come wi' me. My feyther's lyin' in the Knoll Road, done to death."
All were astir in a moment. Lanterns and other necessaries were provided, and bearing one of these lanterns herself, Joan led the way.
As she stepped out onto the pavement a man was passing, and, attracted by the confusion, turned to the crowd:
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"There's a mon been killed up on th' Knoll Road," answered one of the colliers. "It's this lass's feyther, Dan Lowrie."
The man strode into the light and showed an agitated face.
"Killed!" he said, "Dan Lowrie!"
It was Fergus Derrick.
