Some of the carriages had rolled down, and the rails were a wreck. But the engine and half the train had kept on: neither driver nor stoker was hurt, and they were hurrying to fetch help from the next station. At the foot of the bank lay George Crawford insensible, with the guard of the train doing what he could to bring him to consciousness. He was on his back, pale as death, with no motion and scare a sign of life. Alexa tried to give him brandy, but she was so exhausted, and her hand shook so, that she had to yield the bottle to the guard, and, hale and strong as she was, could but drag herself a little apart before she fainted. In the meantime, as the train approached the station, the driver, who belonged to the neighborhood, saw the doctor, slackened speed, and set his whistle shrieking wildly. The doctor set spurs to his horse, and came straight over everything to his side. “You go on,” he said, having heard what had happened; “I shall be there sooner than you could take me.” He came first upon Andrew trying to make Miss Fordyce swallow a little of the brandy. “There's but one gentleman hurt, sir,” said the guard. “The other's only a young lady that's run till she's dropped.” “To bring brandy,” supplemented Andrew. The doctor recognized Alexa, and wondered what reception her lather would give his patient, for to Potlurg he must go! Suddenly she came to herself, and sat up, gazing wildly around. “Out of breath, Miss Fordyce; nothing worse!” said the doctor, and she smiled. He turned to the young man, and did for him what he could without splints or bandages; then, with the help of the guard and Andrew, constructed, from pieces of the broken carriages, a sort of litter on which to carry him to Potlurg. “Is he dead?” asked Alexa. “Not a bit of it. He's had a bad blow on the head, though. We must get him somewhere as fast as we can!” “Do you know him?” “Not I. But we must take him to your house. I don't know what else to do with him!” “What else should you want to do with him?” “I was afraid it might bother the laird.” “You scarcely know my father, Doctor Pratt!” “It would bother most people to have a wounded man quartered on them for weeks!” returned the doctor. “Poor fellow! A good-looking fellow too!” A countryman who had been in the next carriage, but had escaped almost unhurt, offering his service, Andrew and he took up the litter gently, and set out walking with care, the doctor on one side, leading his horse, and Miss Fordyce on the other.