Lost

Mr. Reynolds immediately paused, and regarded this group for some
moments with an air of singular sagacity and archness.

"I say, young fellow," ejaculated he, at length, with an evident effort
to attain distinctness of utterance, "that sort of thing won't do, you
know."

Bressant looked up and recognized the rustic bacchanalian for the first
time. He had always had a peculiar antipathy to this young gentleman;
but at this moment it was intensified into a loathing. How could he ask
assistance from such a degraded creature as this?

The recognition had been mutual, and Mr. Reynolds, tacking unsteadily
around, brought himself to bear in such a position as to catch a fair
view of Sophie's face, with the spot of blood on her chin. The first
glance so terrified him, that he utterly, forsook his footing, and came
abruptly to the ground, never once taking his eyes from the face, all
the way. But the shock of his fall, and the awful solemnity of what he
saw, sobered him considerably. He turned to Bressant, and eyed him with
anxious earnestness.

"Why, you're the fellow she's engaged to, ain't you? What on earth's
been the row? She ain't dead, is she? How did she get here? In her
wedding-rig, too, by golly!"

Bressant's frame vibrated with a savage impulse; but Mr. Reynolds, not
being of a sensitive temperament, was not at all disconcerted.

"Well, say, I guess she'd better be fetched home, first thing," said he,
bestirring himself to arise from the chilly seat he had taken. "Lucky I
happened along, too. Guess you was hoping I might, wasn't you? Well, you
hoist her under the arms, and I'll hang on by the feet--ain't that it?
and we'll have her into the sleigh in no time."