"O, Benedict," he feebly exclaimed, "my head, my head!" "Well, it will be better soon." "Nay, I know I'm dying; 'twas a fatal fall, and I cannot shrive myself." Benedict saw that his patient was getting excited, and he mixed another draught, which the father absolutely refused to take. "Oh, dear, I'm dying, dying," he gasped. "Tut, man! rubbish. There's life enough left yet in you. We shall be out together again in a day or two." "Send for another brother," pursued the unfortunate man. "I am dying; my end has come, and I know it." "Tut, man!" returned the knight, "I tell you you will be better soon." "A witch told me I should die like this," continued the father obstinately, "and the time has come. I am too old to survive it now." "Go to sleep, father," interrupted Manners, "you ought not to talk now; you want rest." "Yes, sleep," assented a Woode. "I cannot, I am dying," he gasped; and he groaned in agony again and again. "Father Philip," interposed Dorothy, "you must rest yourself. Master Manners is a soldier and has seen many hurt like you, and even worse; you must do his bidding an you would get well again." "What in the name of faith does all this mean?" asked Margaret, as she stepped into the room. "What is all this stir and commotion about?" "I am dying, Margaret," repeated the confessor, as he gasped for very breath. "I thought to marry thee, my daughter, but now it is denied me. You will pray for the repose of the soul of Father Philip, will you not?" he inquired, looking up into her face as she bent over him. "When you are dead, yes," she replied, "but not until." "Don't talk to him, Mistress Margaret," said Manners; "he will only injure himself by talking in return. I have enjoined quietness, but he will take no heed. He ought to refresh himself by quietness, and sleep if possible, does he not; is not that correct, Everard?" "Aye, it is indeed," "I shall be dead soon, Margaret, and--" "Go to sleep, man, or at least lie still," growled a Woode. "What is the use of all my care and simples if you won't do as I order you?" "And you will ask the baron to forgive an old man's follies, Margaret?" slowly pursued the father, between the gasps, quite heedless of the counsel given him to remain silent. "I'll stop this," Sir Benedict broke in savagely, as he proceeded to tie the bandages on afresh. "Father Philip, you shall be silent, or die you must. That's better," he exclaimed, as his patient fell back unconscious. "He will, perforce, be quiet now awhile, and we may safely remove him to his room." "Is he badly hurt, think you?" asked Margaret. "I don't think he will ever get better again," Benedict gravely replied; "he is old, and it is a terrible wound." "Neither do I think he will weather it," added Crowleigh; "I have seen men hurt like that before, fair Mistress Margaret, and we soldiers soon recognise the mark of death."