"Master! Master, for God's sake wake up! Say something! No, he's not dead, an' I can't find any hurt except this scratch. Master!"
Tyrrell sat up, slowly, with Gees kneeling beside him and holding his arm. Then, with Gees still holding him, he began retching, and was violently and horribly sick. As he put up a hand to his forehead at the end of the paroxysm he realized that his hair was sodden with dew: he could not remember losing his hat: it must have fallen off when he made that rush from under the tree, and he had lain here a long while. All that had happened was clear in his mind, intolerably, awfully clear.
"Feel better, now?" Gees asked, while Cottrill peered anxiously.
"Yes. Let me stand up. I'm all right, now. Only, I've been in hell—no, hell came here to me. The sheep—another
