Harold, with a stick; the Admiral, with his sword, his grey head and bare feet protruding from either end of a long brown ulster; finally, Doctor Walker, with a poker, all ran to the help of the Westmacotts.

Their door had been already opened, and they crowded tumultuously into the front room.
Charles Westmacott, white to his lips, was kneeling an the floor, supporting his aunt's head upon his knee.

She lay outstretched, dressed in her ordinary clothes, the extinguished taper still grasped in her hand, no mark or wound upon her--pale, placid, and senseless.
"Thank God you are come, Doctor," said Charles, looking up.

"Do tell me how she is, and what I should do." Doctor Walker kneeled beside her, and passed his left hand over her head, while he grasped her pulse with the right.
"She has had a terrible blow," said he.

"It must have been with some blunt weapon.