Drawing her skirts together, Margery left her retreat and approached the group. As the men looked round and perceived her, she thought they seemed alarmed and pained. She quickened her steps, and then the squire came toward her. “You must let me take you to the house, my dear,” he said hurriedly; “your husband wishes it.” “What is the matter? Some one is hurt! Cousin Sholto, don’t stop me! I know now--it is Nugent!” She pushed the squire’s trembling hand to one side, and with swift steps approached the group. The men fell back in silence, and in an instant she was on her knees beside a silent, prostrate form with face of deathly hue. “Nugent!” she cried, bending over him, in agony. Then, as he still lay perfectly still, she looked round wildly. “What is it? Fetch a doctor quickly--your master is hurt!” The man Marshall stepped forward. “We’ve sent for the doctor, my lady. It was done in an instant; the tree swerved and brought his lordship down with it. We’ve just dragged it off his body. He were sensible at first, and asked us to keep you away; but he’s fainted now.” Margery scarcely heard the explanation; with a heart full of dread she was bending over the pale face, breathing words of agony and tenderness that fell on silent ears. The squire came to her and tried to draw her away; but she would not stir. They brought brandy from the house, and a mattress with pillows on which to carry the injured man; but all were afraid to touch him. Then, when her misery, her despair, was greatest, the heavy lids were raised, and she met the gaze of the deep, dark eyes. The white lips trembled and moved; she bent her head to catch the whisper. “It--is--nothing--my darling. Take me to----” The labored speech died away in another faint; and, as she saw his weakness and suffering, Margery rose to her feet with courage born of despair. “Carry your master to the house,” she said, steadily, never taking her eyes from his face. The men stooped, and, with tender, gentle hands lifted the inanimate form on to the mattress; then, with slow, even steps, they carried him through the sunlit gardens to the house. It was not far, yet by the time they reached the entrance the doctor of the village was seen riding furiously up the avenue. He leaped from his horse, and was at the wounded man’s side in an instant. Margery turned her eyes from the pale face of her husband and fixed them upon the doctor. As he scanned the earl’s drawn countenance, her heart seemed to stand still. In that moment she was conscious of nothing but an agony of dread, remorse and pain so terrible that it almost overpowered her. “Carry him into a room on the ground floor,” said the doctor, decisively. “We must not risk the stairs.” They carried him through the hall into the room where long before he had sat by Enid’s couch. Margery walked with them, though what power enabled her to move she knew not, for all life seemed dead within her.