Keep back--Clear out, now!
[He slowly moves them back, and at last shepherds them through
the door and shuts it on them, TIMSON being last.]
FERRAND. The rum!
[WELLWYN fetches the decanter. With the little there is left
FERRAND chafes the girl's hands and forehead, and pours some
between her lips. But there is no response from the inert
body.]
FERRAND. Her soul is still away, Monsieur!
[WELLWYN, seizing the decanter, pours into it tea and boiling
water.]
CONSTABLE. It's never drownin', sir--her head was hardly under; I
was on to her like knife.
FERRAND. [Rubbing her feet.] She has not yet her philosophy,
Monsieur; at the beginning they often try. If she is dead! [In a
voice of awed rapture.] What fortune!
CONSTABLE. [With puzzled sadness.] True enough, sir--that! We'd
just begun to know 'er. If she 'as been taken--her best friends
couldn't wish 'er better.
WELLWYN. [Applying the decanter to her dips.] Poor little thing!
I'll try this hot tea.
FERRAND. [Whispering.] 'La mort--le grand ami!'
WELLWYN. Look! Look at her! She's coming round!
[A faint tremor passes over MRS. MEGAN's body. He again
applies the hot drink to her mouth. She stirs and gulps.]
CONSTABLE. [With intense relief.] That's brave! Good lass!
She'll pick up now, sir.
[Then, seeing that TIMSON and the curious persons have again
opened the door, he drives them out, and stands with his back
against it.
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