Aurelia took up the other, and followed, trembling. When she reached the outer room the rush of air almost blew out her light, and pausing, afraid to pass on, she perceived that Mr. Belamour and Jumbo were carrying the insensible form between them into the inner apartment, while a moan or two filled her heart with pangs of self-reproach. She hung about, in terrible anxiety, but not daring to come forward while the others were engaged about the sufferer, for what seemed a very long time before she heard Mrs. Aylward say, “His arm is broke, sir. We must send for Dr. Hunter. The maids are all in their beds, but I will go and wake one, and send her to the stables to call the groom.” “I had best go,” said Mr. Belamour. “You are of more use than I. He sleeps at the stables, you say?” Then, seeing the waiting, watching form of Aurelia, he said, “Come in, my poor child. Perhaps your voice may rouse him.” Every one, including himself, seemed to have forgotten Mr. Belamour’s horror of the light, for candles were flaring on all the tables, as he led the you girl in, saying, “Speak to him.” At the death-like face in its golden hair, Aurelia’s voice choked in her throat, and it was in an unnatural hoarse tone that she tried to say, “Sir--Sir Amyas--” “I trust he will soon be better,” said Mr. Belamour, marking her dismay and grief with his wonted kindness, “but his arm needs the surgeon, and I must be going. Let Lady Belamour sit here, Mrs. Aylward. I trust you with the knowledge. It was my nephew, in disguise, who wedded her, unknown to her. She is entirely blameless. Let Jumbo fetch her a cordial. There, my child, take this chair, so that his eyes may fall on you when he opens them. Bathe his head if you will. I shall return quickly after having sped the groom on his journey.” Gloomy and doubtful were the looks cast on Aurelia by the housekeeper, but all unseen by the wondering, bewildered, remorseful eyes fixed on the white face on the pillow, heedless of its perfect symmetry of feature, and knowing only that this was he who had thrilled her heart with his tender tones, who had loved her so dearly, and dared so much for her sake, but whom her impatience and distrust had so cruelly injured. Had she seen him strong, well, and ardent, as she had so lately heard him, her womanhood would have recoiled indignantly at the deception which had stolen her vows; but the spectacle of the young senseless face and prostrate form filled her with compassion, tenderness, and remorse, for having yielded to her sister’s persuasions. With intense anxiety she watched, and assisted in the fomentations, longing for Mr. Belamour’s return; but time passed on and still he came not. No words passed, only a few faint sighs, and one of the hands closed tight on Aurelia’s. CHAPTER XXIII. WRATH AND DESOLATION.