At the sound of the closing door John Devereux came again into the hall; and now the noise of horses' hoofs was heard, dying away outside. "Dot--my child, what is it?" her father exclaimed, his heart stirred by a presentiment of some ill he could not define. And he moved toward the mute figure standing like a statue in the centre of the wide hall. But John was there before him; and as he passed his arm around her, she started, and a dry, gasping breath broke from her lips,--one that might have been a sob, had there been any sign of tears in the wild eyes that seemed to hold no sight as they were turned to her brother's face. "Dot--little sister," he cried, "tell me--what is the matter?" And Mary, now close beside them, added quickly, "Tell him, Dot,--tell him now." "Tell," Dorothy repeated mechanically, her voice sounding strained and husky. "Tell--tell him yourself, Mary. Tell him that--" And she fell, a dead weight, against her brother's breast. CHAPTER XXV Whether it was due to ordinary physical causes, or was the result of mental agitation arising from what has been told herein, cannot well be determined; but, soon after Dorothy had been carried to her room,--conscious, but in a condition to forbid all questioning or explanation--her father was taken with what in the language of that day was termed a "seizure,"--so serious as to alarm the household, and divert all thoughts from other affairs. He had been pacing up and down the drawing-room, now deserted by all save himself and his son. His hands were clasped behind him, his chin was sunk upon his breast, and his brows knit as though from anxious thought. Jack sat staring into the fire; and both were waiting for the return of either Mary or Aunt Lettice, both of whom had gone to Dorothy's room to give her such attention as she might require. It was Mary who came to announce that the girl was now better, and that, having taken a sleeping potion administered by Aunt Lettice, she wished to see her father. The old gentleman left the room with a brisk step; and Mary's eyes followed him nervously as she went over and seated herself by her husband. They were silent for a time, both of them watching the flames that arched from the logs over the fiery valleys and miniature cliffs made by the burnt and charred wood, until Jack asked suddenly, "Why do you not tell me now, sweetheart?" Mary well knew what he meant; but she waited a moment, thinking how best she might reveal the sad and terrible matter she had to disclose. "Mary,"--he now spoke a little impatiently, and as though to rouse her from her abstraction--"tell me what all this means." She stole a hand into his, and then repeated to him all that Dorothy had told her. He listened with fast-growing anger; and then, coupled with his first outburst of rage against the hated redcoat, were reproaches for his wife, that she had not sooner informed him of the trouble.