They had now come very near to the seacoast, and were within a few miles of the spot where, winding round the deep shores of a small bay, the road turned to pass the park of Sir Francis Tyrrell. The distance by the road might be about ten miles; through the wood it was less than half; and so fine had been the night, that Charles Tyrrell had almost made up his mind to alight at that spot, and take the shorter path in order to enjoy the morning freshness more at leisure. As they approached the shore, however, and the day began to dawn, a thick sea-fog came on, unusual at that period of the year, but which took away all promise of pleasure from the idea of walking through the wood. The high road itself was scarcely discernible; and as they turned away from the sea again to sweep round the bay and cut across the opposite point, they could hear the voices of persons talking close by the road, without being able to see where they were. The coachman was going on at a furious rate, and one of the passengers who sat on the box had just said, "You had better take care, or you will run over something or somebody," when some object coming out of the wood on the left, which neither the coachman nor any of the passengers could see, startled the leaders, who dashed violently up the bank on the opposite side of the road. The coach was carried after them and instantly upset, and Charles Tyrrell, with the rest of the passengers on the outside, felt himself instantly cast with enormous force towards the wood on the left. Of what happened after for some time he had no consciousness. He felt, indeed, a violent blow upon the head, but that was all; and when, after a long lapse of time, he regained his senses for a few minutes, it was but to feel, or at least to think, he was dying, and to sink again into insensibility. Those brief moments, however, had been sufficient for many a painful thought to cross his mind. He thought of Lucy Effingham certainly; but we must tell the truth, and acknowledge that the first, the deepest, the most painful thought was of his mother. Lucy, he knew, had other ties to life; and though she might grieve, she would not grieve without consolation. Lady Tyrrell had none but him, and, had he had power to speak, he might have exclaimed with the wounded cavalier, Prince Baldwin, in the Marquis of Mantua: "O triste Reyna mi madre, Dios te quiera consolar, Que yà es quebrado el espejo En que te solias mirar. "Siempre de mi recelaste Sobresalto de pesar Ahora de aqui adelante No te cumple rezelar."