But always he rose again, frantically dashing from side to
side, as a caged lark, when first caught, dashes itself against the bars
of its prison; until finally, stunned beyond recovery, he lay in a
semi-conscious condition, helpless and inert, his bruises smarting but
unfelt, and the blood oozing from his nose and mouth.
Andrew Marshall, working about fifty yards away, heard the roar and the
crash, and the boy's cries, and at once ran to Geordie's place. In his
haste and anxiety he nearly stumbled over the prostrate boy, who lay
unconscious in the roadway.
"Good God! What has happened?" he exclaimed, anxiously bending over the
boy and raising him up, then dashing some cold tea from Robert's flask
upon him, and forcing some between his lips. Then, when the boy showed
signs of recovery, he plied him with anxious questions.
"Where's yir faither? What's wrang?" But the boy only clung to him in
wild terror, and nothing connected could be got from him.
Andrew lighted the boy's lamp and tore up the brae, leaving Robert
shrieking in nervous fright.
"Great Christ! It has fa'en in!" he cried, when he had got as far as he
could go. "Geordie! Geordie! Are ye in there?" and as no answer came, he
began tearing at the great blocks of stone, flinging them like pebbles
in his desperation, until another warning rumble drove him back.
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