In the meantime John Temple was riding quietly along the country lanes, with the hedge-rows on either side green with the hues of the spring-time. And for no particular purpose, when he reached the outskirts of Henley Wood he turned his horse toward the road through it, admiring placidly as he went the trees just budding into leafage. It was a peaceful scene, and there was no disturbing element in John Temple's mind, when suddenly there sprang from behind the trunk of one of the great oaks the figure of a man. John turned his head to look at this man, and in a moment recognized him. It was Tom Henderson of Stourton Grange, but a terrible change had passed over the young man's face; and in an instant it flashed across John's mind that he had heard that Tom Henderson had been, or was, mad. And he could not doubt this now. Henderson stood straight before him on the roadway, brandishing a huge, heavy, oaken bludgeon, which he had probably cut from one of the neighboring trees. And as John Temple approached nearer, with a frightful yell he sprang forward toward him, and struck a severe blow on the head of John's horse. The horse reared, and John lashed the madman with his riding-whip, which was his only means of defense. But with a hoarse scream of rage Henderson now closed with him, striking him also on the head with his murderous weapon, and John reeled from his saddle and fell. "Now I've got my revenge!" shrieked Henderson. "You who spoilt my life!" By this time, however, John Temple had regained his feet, and a fierce struggle ensued between the two men. John was blinded by the blood flowing from the wound on his brow, but still he fought bravely for his life. They wound their arms round each other; they tore, they strained, but Henderson was a more heavily built man than John Temple, and his madness gave him unnatural strength. Finally he forced John down on the ground below him, and struck him with his clenched fist, once more on the head. John Temple's arms relaxed their grasp; a deadly faintness stole over him, and Henderson gave a hideous laugh. He had won the fight, and he rose triumphant and spurned his enemy with his foot; and then drawing his pocket-knife from his coat, plunged it into John Temple's breast. He had scarcely done the murderous deed when he heard hurried footsteps approaching down the roadway, and he at once turned and fled. It was his keeper, from whose care he had escaped, and the man had come out to seek him. The keeper, horrified, now came on John Temple's prostrate body. He knelt down, he raised the head, and for a moment or two longer John Temple lived. He breathed once or twice; he whispered one word--"May--" he murmured, and as the name lingered on his lips he died. * * * * *