She ran through the snow towards the wounded man. The dog was
yelping and running frantically about.
The old man raised himself to a sitting posture as she stooped and
supported his head. He did not recognize her until she spoke.
"Where are you hurt, Colin?" she asked. "Do you not know me? I'm
Thora."
He tried to place his hand on his side, and fell back helpless.
"Can ye walk with me as far as Mary Firth's?" she said.
"Nay, Thora, lassie," he murmured. "I'll not walk any more. My
travelling is ower. The life flies out o' me."
Thora wrung her hands, not knowing what to do. The darkness of
night was coming on. They were far away from any dwelling, save the
little cottage, and the snow wreaths on the desolate moor were
becoming every moment more impassable.
"I will run to Stromness for Dr. Linklater," she said.
"No, lassie, no; there's no use o' doing that," said Colin. "The
doctor can do nothing. Go away home and let me die."
"No, I canna leave you, Colin," she said woefully. "And how can I
go home when my own brother has done this thing?"
"Tom Kinlay is no brother o' yours, Thora!" gasped Colin. "Nor
Carver your father!"
"What do you mean, Colin? Oh, what do you mean?" cried she. "Carver
not my father! Who is my father, then?"
"Listen!" said Colin.
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