'He is frightfully changed. Something must have occurred since I left. There is some trouble on his mind which harasses him, and at times seems almost to shake his reason. I thought at first I had guessed the cause of it, but I find now I was utterly mistaken. What has happened, aunt?' Not a word passed the mother's set lips. Better than anyone she knew the piteous change which had come over her son, but to this man she could not, would not, confess it. 'Forgive me if I put a painful question,' went on Oswald. 'We have to fear, to guard against the worst; in such a case, all other considerations vanish. Before I left, I gave into your brother's charge a small packet. I told him expressly that it was to be delivered to you alone, that Edmund was not to know its contents. Can it be that, in spite of this ... can he have learned----' He paused, unable to frame his question, and the marked agitation displayed by one usually so cold and self-possessed revealed to the Countess the true nature of the danger of which hitherto she had had but a dim foreboding. She gazed anxiously into Oswald's face, and in lieu of making answer, asked: 'Why did Edmund start alone? What was the meaning of that last look, that farewell gesture? You know it, Oswald.' 'I know nothing, but I fear the worst after the scene which took place between us this morning. Edmund has made a mad wager. He means to drive over Stag's Hill on such a day as this. By his express directions, the most unmanageable horses in the stables have been put to his sledge, and the groom has been left behind. You see, it is a question of life or death, and I must know the truth. Is Edmund acquainted with the contents of that packet?' A faintly articulated 'Yes' was the reply wrung from the Countess's panting breast. With this one word she confessed all, gave herself over completely into the hands of her nephew; but at the moment no sense of this occurred to her. Her son's life was at stake. What cared the mother for her own ruin or shame? 'Good God! Then he has planned some terrible deed,' exclaimed Oswald. 'Now I see, I understand it all.' The Countess uttered a shriek, as a full comprehension of that last farewell dawned suddenly on her also. 'I must go after him,' said Oswald, with quick determination, pulling the bell as he spoke. 'There is not a moment to lose.' 'I ... I will accompany you,' gasped the Countess, advancing a step; but she staggered and would have fallen, had not her nephew caught and supported her. 'Impossible, aunt. You could not bear it. Besides, all the sledges are out. There is not one at our disposal, and we could not get through the snow with a carriage. I will mount a horse and ride after him--ride for dear life. That is the one chance left us.' He turned to Everard, who at that moment entered the room. 'Have the English chestnut saddled. Be as quick as possible. I must follow the Count at once.'