"It's the Suffragettes" shouted some one.

And up to then Vivie had not thought of connecting this unprecedented act with the purposed protest of Emily Wilding Davison.

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.