For one awful moment Monica thinks she is going to faint. A mist rises between her and Timothy's face; his voice sounds far away, in the next county as it were, and then ceases altogether. Then a sharp sting of pain rushing through her veins rouses her, and sends the blood back with a tumultuous haste to cheek and neck and brow. The pain is short but effective, and is, indeed, nothing more than a pinch of a pronounced type, administered by the watchful Kit, with a promptitude very creditable to her. "He is exaggerating," says the astute Kit, in a subdued whisper apparently addressed to her plate. "Don't believe him; take courage; and, at all events, remember their eyes are upon you!" Her tone is great with mystery and kindly encouragement. More revived by it than even by the pinch, Monica takes heart of grace, and listens with maddening impatience for what is yet to come. Glancing at Miss Priscilla, she can see that her aunt is as pale as death, and that her hands are trembling excessively. Miss Penelope is looking with anxiety at her, whilst trying to elicit the truth from Ryan. "Collect yourself, Ryan," she says, severely. "Who was killed?" "No one outright, I'm tould, miss,--but----" "Then who is wounded?" "The bullet went right through them, miss." "Through _both_! But that is impossible. I must beg you again to collect yourself, Timothy; all this is most important, and naturally Miss Blake--that is, _we_--are much upset about it. Through whom did the bullet go?" "The ould squire an' his nephew, miss." "Through their bodies?" cries Miss Penelope, throwing up hope and both her hands at the same time. "No, ma'am, jist between them, as it might be between you an' Miss Priscilla now." He illustrates the real truth as he says this. "Bless me, man! sure they weren't touched at all so," says Miss Penelope. "No more they were, miss. Sorra a bit, praise be----" "Then why did you say they were killed?" says Terence, indignantly, who has been stricken dumb by the appalling fate of his dear Desmond. "An' sure how much nearer could they be to it? What saved thim, but maybe the hitch of a chair? Oh! wirrasthrue this day!" says old Ryan, beginning to cry. "Timothy sit down directly. Terence get him a glass of whiskey," says Miss Penelope. "Now, don't excite yourself, Timothy; you know it is very bad for you at your age. Take time, now. Collect yourself!" "Have the assassins been discovered?" asks Miss Priscilla, in a trembling tone. "No, miss. But I'm tould the polis is very eager afther 'em." "Was nobody hurt, Timothy?" "No one, ma'am." Here Monica, feeling the relief greater than she can support, gives way to a dry but perfectly audible sob. "Don't be afeard, miss, dear," says old Ryan, with heartfelt but most ill-judged sympathy: "the _young gentleman_ is all right. Not a single scratch on him, they say; so you needn't be cryin' about him, honey."