And in another minute Sylvester was pulled down from his dangerous perch and held up, as he staggered for a moment with cramp and stiffness, by the strong hands of three of his own scholars--youths whose faces at lecture had never greatly interested him, but who seemed now very angels of deliverance. "Are you hurt, sir? Lean on me, Mr Riddell. We can soon get a boat up to the rocks." "Can we reach him? He fell over the cliff." The footing was much less secure beneath the spot where Lucian lay, but beneath again was a broad slab of rock now laid bare; and between them all they managed to lift Lucian, now quite senseless, and lay him down with his head on Sylvester's knee. Then two of the lads went off to get a boat which could be brought up to a little strip of sand below at low tide, and the other remained to give what help he could. Lucian moved a little again presently, when some whiskey, which the young men were carrying on their walking tour, had been put upon his lips and temples. He knew Sylvester's voice and whispered-- "Are you safe, Syl?" "Oh, yes. But you--can you say where you are hurt?" "I'm glad I let go," murmured Lucian; while it came over Sylvester with a flash of certainty that the clasping hand had not given way from faintness, but had loosed its hold rather than risk pulling him over. "I am--done for," gasped Lucian. "I am hurt--inside--I can't speak-- Mother--my love--and _her_." He sank again into unconsciousness, and Howard, the young undergraduate, put his arm round Sylvester to support him as he held Lucian's weight, and put the whiskey-flask to his lips. "Is he your brother?" he whispered. "No; my friend, and he has given his life for mine. Oh, my God! Can the boat get there?" It came at last, and as they lifted Lucian into it, there was a sob of pain that showed life at least. And life, Sylvester tried to feel, meant hope. CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. COMMONPLACE. "Really, Amethyst, I don't see how I am to manage, if we pay many more visits. You see, all my things were got for the season, and I haven't got an autumn gown or jacket that's fit to be seen; and I _can't_ go to a hunt-breakfast in a summer hat, and just look at this one." The speaker was Una Haredale, one lovely autumn day in late October, as she stood by the wardrobe in her bedroom in Mrs Lorrimore's country house, and displayed its contents ruefully to her sister. The view from the window had all the charm of exquisite rural peace. The woods in every tint of gold and russet stretched away over wide outspreading country beyond the green slopes of the park where single trees blazed and shone in their autumn dresses; cattle and sheep dotted the grass between and beneath them. Restharrow, as the house was called, looked the _very_ home of quiet and virtuous content. But the house-party who were staying with Mrs Lorrimore contrived to amuse themselves, and Restharrow was not regarded as a quiet house.