"He would not like it. He never drinks it, you know," she said in a
quiet low voice, and pouring some of the contents on her handkerchief,
moistened all his brows and face and hair with the powerful alcohol.
"Loosen his belt! pull off his boots, some of you!" cried Mr. Currie
Ghyrkins, as he came up breathless. "Take off his belt--damn it, you
know! Dear, dear!" and he got off his _tat_ with all the alacrity he
could muster.
Miss Westonhaugh never took her eyes from the face of the prostrate
man--pressing the wet handkerchief to his brow, and moistening the palm
of the hand she held with brandy. In a few minutes Isaacs breathed a
long heavy breath, and opened his eyes.
"What is the matter?" he said; then, recollecting himself and trying to
move his head--"Oh! I have had a tumble. Give me some water to drink."
There was a sigh of relief from every one present as he spoke, quite
naturally, and I held the _lota_ to his lips. "What became of the ball?"
he asked quickly, as he sat up. Then turning round, he saw the beautiful
girl kneeling at his side. The blood rushed violently to his face, and
his eyes, a moment ago dim with unconsciousness, flashed brightly.
"What! Miss Westonhaugh--you?" he bounded to his feet, but would have
fallen back if I had not caught him in my arms, for he was still dizzy
from the heavy blow that had stunned him.
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