The Vicar thought not, and, producing a tinder-box, began to strike a flint and steel and to kindle the lantern that had been brought from the house. Then when the light fell on the white face drawn with pain, the doctor regretted that he had not brought Gabriel’s mother, for not even at Notting Hill had he seemed so near death. Hilary saw the change in his manner and her heart sank. Yet it comforted her a little when Dr. Harford proceeded to examine the shattered arm, for surely, she argued to herself, had there been no hope he would have left his son’s last moments undisturbed. “I did the best I could for him in the orchard,” said the Vicar; “but fear it was but rough-and-ready treatment.” “The duel would have been enough to defeat the most skilful surgery,” said the Doctor; “and clearly the bone must have been broken as he fell. But he hath great rallying power, and I don’t despair of him yet.” On those words Hilary stayed her failing heart all through that terrible night, while Gabriel passed from one fainting fit to another, and it seemed as if the angel of death hovered above him ready at any moment to bear him away from her. At length towards daybreak he slept for a time, and woke with a look of renewed life in his face which cheered them. “The despatches?” he asked, looking from his father to the Vicar. “Dr. Coke has given them to me,” said the physician. “And you will bear them without delay?” said Gabriel, anxiously. Dr. Harford’s face clouded. “To leave you now may mean your death,” he replied. “I do not think I can leave you.” “But I promised to guard them with my life, and they are urgent,” pleaded Gabriel. “Let me still serve.” Hilary’s eyes grew dim, but she spoke in a low, steady voice. “I will do all that you bid me, sir,” she said. “Surely good nursing may save him.” “Well, my dear,” said the physician, “if anyone can keep him in life, I verily believe ’tis you; and if he urges me to go, I cannot say him nay.” “You will see them both yourself,” said Gabriel. “Ay, the despatches shall be placed in their own hands.” “And tell General Cromwell,” said Gabriel, “that if I recover, I more than ever desire to serve the wounded.” With many last directions, the physician at length tore himself away, well knowing that it was doubtful whether he should ever again look on his son. The Vicar went to see him mount, glad that he should leave Bosbury before the village was astir, and as they quitted the tower Gabriel turned to Hilary with a look that made her heart bound. “Now do you repay a hundredfold all the suffering of these years,” he said. “Living or dying, I am content.” She bent down and kissed him tenderly. And long before the Vicar rejoined them he had sunk into a dreamless sleep.