She sprang to her feet, and shouting to all who might have
tried to stop her "I'm a friend of the lady. I am a doctor"--she
didn't care what lie she told--she was soon authoritatively pushing
through the ring of police constables who like warrior ants had
surrounded the victims of the protest--the shivering, trembling
horse, now on its legs, the pitifully crushed, unconscious
woman--her hat hanging to the tresses of her hair by a dislodged
hat-pin, her thin face stained with blood from surface punctures.
The jockey was being carried from the course, still unconscious, but
not badly hurt.
A great surgeon happening to be at Epsom Race course on a friend's
drag, had hurried to offer his services. He was examining the
unconscious woman and striving very gently to straighten and
disentangle her crooked body. Presently there was a respectful stir
in the privileged ring, and Vivie was conscious by the raising of
hats that the King stood amongst them looking down on the woman who
had offered up her life before his eyes to enforce the Woman's
appeal. He put his enquiries and offered his suggestions in a low
voice, but Vivie withdrew, less with the fear that her right to be
there and her connection with the tragedy might be questioned, as
from some instinctive modesty. The occasion was too momentous for
the presence of a supernumerary. Emily Wilding Davison should have
her audience of her Sovereign without spectators.
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