Clement glanced about him, and his confidence began to leave him. What was he to do? He could not go for help, leaving the old man lying in the road; yet it was impossible to do much in the dark, either to ascertain the extent of the Squire’s hurt, or to use means to stanch it. The moon had not yet risen, the plain stretched dark about them, no sound except the melancholy whisper of the wind in the rushes reached him. There was no house near and it was growing late. No one might pass for hours. Fortunately when he had reached this stage he remembered that he had his tinder box and matches in his pocket, and he fumbled for them with his disengaged hand. With an effort, he got them out. But to strike a light and catch it in the huddled posture in which he knelt was not easy, and it was only after a score of attempts that the match caught the flame. Even so, the light it gave was faint, but it revealed the Squire’s face, and Clement saw, with a shudder, that the left eye and temple were terribly battered. But he saw, too, that the old man was conscious, for he uttered a groan, and peered with the uninjured eye at the face that bent over him. “Good lad!” he muttered, “good lad!” and he added broken words which conveyed to Clement’s mind that it was his man who had attacked him. Then—his face was so turned that it was within a few inches of Clement’s shoulder—“You’re bloody, lad,” he muttered. “He’s spoiled your coat, the d—d rascal!” With that he seemed to slip back into unconsciousness, and the light went out. It left Clement in a strait to know what he ought to do, or rather what he could do. Help he must get, and speedily, if he would save the Squire’s life, but his horse was gone, and to walk away for help, leaving the old man lying in the mud of the way seemed inhuman. He must at least carry him to the side of the road. The task was no light one, for the Squire was tall, though not stout; and before Clement stooped to it he cast a last look round. But silence still wrapped all, and he was gathering his strength to lift the dead weight, when a sound caught his ear, and he raised himself. A moment, and joy!—he caught the far-off beat of hoofs on the turf. Someone was coming, approaching him from the direction of Aldersbury. He shouted, shouted his loudest and waited. Yes, he was not mistaken. The soft plop-plop of hoofs grew louder, two forms loomed out of the darkness, a horse shied, a man swore. “Here!” Clement cried. “Here! Take care! There’s a man in the road.” “Where?” Then, “Confound you, you nearly had me down! Are you hurt?” “No, but” “I’ve got your horse. I met him a couple of miles this side of the town. What has——” Clement broke in. “There’s bad work here!” he cried, his voice shaky. Now that help was at hand and the peril was over, he began to feel what he had gone through. “For God’s sake get down and help me. Your uncle’s man has robbed him and, I fear, murdered him.” “The Squire?”