And he found him. With a snort and a last strong pull the horse now reached the summit, and trotted on a few minutes over the even ground. On the opposite side of this plateau the road declined again sharply. The track of the sledge was still visible, but about a hundred paces further on, just at the most precipitous part, the snow was ploughed up and much betrodden, as by the hoofs of rearing, plunging horses. The low hedge which bordered the road was broken through, torn down; the young firs on the hill-side were bent and broken as though a hurricane had passed over them, and in the depths below lay a dark, inert mass, sledge and horses, all together, borne down to a common destruction, dashed to pieces in that dizzy, dreadful fall. At this sight Oswald forgot his caution. Reckless of the imminent peril to himself, he spurred his horse down the road at full speed. When he reached the valley below, he sprang from the saddle, and at once plunged into the ravine. There he saw the shattered sledge, the horses lying, one beneath, one above--and at a little distance from these--Edmund, stretched motionless upon the ground. He had been flung from his seat in the fall--this and the snow, which here in the valley had drifted thick and deep, had preserved him from being absolutely mangled and mutilated; but the rocky ground had nevertheless wrought cruel injury, as was abundantly proved by the blood which streamed from a scalp-wound, reddening the white snow in a great circle about his head. Oswald threw himself on his knees by his cousin's side, and strove to stanch the blood, to recall the unconscious man to life. At first, all his efforts were in vain, but after long minutes of weary watching and agonized suspense, Edmund opened his eyes. Their dull veiled look seemed, however, to lack all recognition. Slowly only, and by degrees, at the sound of Oswald's voice, as he put his anxious questions, did full consciousness return to the sufferer. 'Oswald,' he said, very softly, and his tone was the old loving tone he had ever been wont to use towards the friend of his youth. All the bitterness, the wild frenzied agitation of the last few hours, had died out from those pain-stricken but calm features. 'Edmund, why had you not confidence in me?' burst forth Oswald. 'Why have I only just heard of your trouble--of the trouble which drove you to this? I have ridden after you in all mad haste, but I come too late, too late perhaps by a very few minutes.' Edmund's half-dimmed eyes gained life and fire again as he turned them towards the speaker. 'You know?' 'All!' 'Then you understand all,' said Edmund faintly. 'To have to lie to you, not to be able to meet your eye, that was the hardest trial I have had to bear. Now it is past. Today, this very day, you will be Master of Ettersberg.'