Meanwhile, Ulick Doran lay in a motionless heap, precisely as if he were lifeless--in fact, as the child said to herself, “There was not a stir out of him! and what was to be done at all, at all?” Not a soul was likely to come near them; her father’s cottage was four fields away, and he and her mother were out, it being market day, and there was not a creature within but the cat. She crept down from the bank, and cautiously approached the still form. Master Ulick was as white as a sheet; his eyes were closed, and from a deep cut in his forehead the blood was oozing. Mary Foley, an only child, was unusually sharp and self-confident for her age; her mother, a delicate woman, was given to “weak turns” and long faints, and on some of these occasions little Mary had tended her without assistance. Perhaps Master Ulick was only overcome with the same kind of strong weakness as her mother? She eyed him critically for a moment, then boldly filched his handkerchief from his pocket, and darted off to the Holy Well, which lay within a couple of hundred yards. Returning breathless, she dabbed his temples and forehead with ice-cold water; and still he never moved, but lay like a stone. Then she sat down on the grass and raised his head, and laid it on her small lap; and as she resumed her operations with the wet handkerchief, some salt tears became mingled with the water from St. Bridget’s Well. In a short time she was weeping bitterly. All at once Ulick Doran opened his eyes. Where was he? His head was reeling round, but he grasped that above him was a watery, wintry sky, beneath him the hard, damp earth, behind his head something small! What? He turned his glance upwards, and beheld a pair of streaming hazel eyes, and a mop of rough red hair. Was it a fairy? For a moment he lay motionless, and wondered; then, as his senses gradually returned to him, he recollected the child on the ditch. Yes, he had come a tremendous cropper! Was the horse killed? He struggled to a sitting posture. No, the brute was all right, grazing away in the corner of the field. The effort cost him agony, and he realised that he was badly hurt; his shoulder seemed twisted, and altogether he felt sick and faint, and as if he had been recently passed under a steam-roller. “Holy Mary be praised! And ye are not killed all out, Mr. Ulick?” piped a small voice, and the child rose to her feet. “No. Do I look like it?” he answered cheerily. “And ye got the better of him after all!” “I’m not so sure of that. Anyhow, he has the best of it _now_”; and his eyes wandered to the hunter, who was cropping grass along a headland with the zest of a gourmand. “Are ye much hurted?” she asked. Generally, when her mother “came to,” she was all right! “My head feels a bit buzzy, and I believe I’ve put my shoulder out, and broken some bones.” “What’s to be done?” she asked, wringing her little red hands. “What’s to be done at all? Shall I run up to the Castle?”