‘But,’ remonstrated Barbara, ‘he is your brother.’ ‘My brother!’ laughed Martin. ‘He is no relation of mine. He is naught to me and I am naught to him.’ ‘You called him your brother.’ ‘That was tantamount to comrade. All sons of Adam are brothers, at least in misfortune. I do not even know the fellow’s name.’ ‘Why,’ said Barbara, ‘this is very strange. You call him Jasper, and he named you Martin.’ ‘Ah!’ said the man hesitatingly, ‘we are chance travellers, riding along the same road. He asked my name and I gave it him—my surname. I am a Mr. Martin—he mistook me; and in exchange he gave me his Christian name. That is how I knew it. If anyone asks about this event, you can say that Mr. Martin passed this way and halted awhile at your house, on his road to Tavistock. ‘You are going to Tavistock?’ ‘Yes, that is my destination.’ ‘In that case I will not seek to detain you. Call up Doctor Crooke and send him here.’ ‘I will do so. You furnish me with an additional motive for haste to depart.’ ‘Go,’ said Barbara. ‘God grant the poor man may not die.’ ‘Die! pshaw! die!’ exclaimed Martin. ‘Men aren’t such brittle ware as that pretty sister of yours. A fall from a horse don’t kill a man. If it did, fox-hunting would not be such a popular sport. To-morrow, or the day after, Mr. Jasper What’s-his-name will be on his feet again. Hush! What do I hear?’ His cheek turned pale, but Barbara did not see it; he kept his face studiously away from the light. ‘Your horse which you hitched up outside neighed, that is all.’ ‘That is a great deal. It would not neigh at nothing.’ He went out. Barbara told the maid to stay by the sick man, and went after Martin. She thought that in all probability the boy had arrived driving the gig. Martin stood irresolute in the doorway. The horse that had borne the injured man had been brought into the courtyard, and hitched up at the hall door. Martin looked across the quadrangle. The moon was shining into it. A yellow glimmer came from the sick porter’s window over the great gate. The large gate was arched, a laden waggon might pass under it. It was unprovided with doors. Through it the moonlight could be seen on the paved ground in front of the old lodge. A sound of horse-hoofs was audible approaching slowly, uncertainly, on the stony ground; but no wheels. ‘What can the boy have done with our gig?’ asked Barbara. ‘Will you be quiet?’ exclaimed Martin angrily. ‘I protest—you are trembling,’ she said. ‘May not a man shiver when he is cold?’ answered the man. She saw him shrink back into the shadow of the entrance as something appeared in the moonlight outside the gatehouse, indistinctly seen, moving strangely. Again the horse neighed. They saw the figure come on haltingly out of the light into the blackness of the shadow of the gate, pass through, and emerge into the moonlight of the court.