“He is quite safe. He will be here soon with a coach to take you safely home. He has not been in any of the troubles; he has been in the hotel ever since he left you. We got there by the back way without any difficulty; but the town was too disturbed for it to be advisable to attempt to drive out till some sort of order had been restored.” “But you are hurt,” said Bride, with a look at the slung arm; “what have you been doing?” “Oh, it is nothing,” answered Eustace, as he sat down to tell his tale, for he had been on his feet the best part of the day and was very fatigued; “only a little crushed and mangled--no bone broken. I could not keep within doors when so much that was exciting was going on without, and I was in the thick of the _mêlée_ once. Poor Saul Tresithny fared worse than I. I am afraid he will never walk again. They are taking him to his grandfather’s house to be cared for: we thought it was the best thing to do. Poor fellow! poor fellow!--such a fine character run to waste! He might have done much for the cause of liberty and advancement; but he would not listen to aught save his own wild passions.” Bride clasped her hands and looked earnestly at Eustace. “Tell me what has happened,” she said breathlessly. “I will tell you as much as I know myself. You are aware, of course, that to get possession of your father’s carriage and drag all the Radical voters to the poll in it was considered the most wonderful triumph over us and our man. As soon as you were safely out of the way, the mob turned its attention to the spoil they had confiscated. A young blacksmith who could drive was put on the box; the colours were torn from the horses and replaced by others; and the equipage was sent dashing all over the town, returning each time crammed inside and out with the shabbiest and least reputable voters that could be found, the snorting, terrified, foaming horses being goaded almost to madness by the shouting and the blows they received, and threatening again and again to become altogether unmanageable.” “Poor creatures!” said Bride softly; “I hope they have not been hurt. My father would be grieved.” “I think they will not be the worse in the end. They are on their homeward way now with their own coachman driving them, and poor Saul lies groaning in the torn and ruined carriage, being taken to his grandfather’s cottage by the wish of the Duke. It is doubtful whether he will live through the effects of this day’s work; and your father wished him to be taken to Abner, as the only person likely to exercise the smallest influence over him.” “Ah! poor Abner!” said Bride, with compassion; and looking again at Eustace, she said, “Go on, please; tell me the rest.”