In a moment he was by his victim’s side again. If the apparently dying man would but give signs of life, would only recover sufficiently to say that John was not a murderer by _malice prepense_, the latter felt he could freely forgive the past. Once more he leant anxiously over the prostrate form, and once more counted the feeble pulsations of the faintly-beating heart, and this time not wholly without finding comfort; for, after a few more minutes, the head of the prostrate man was slowly raised, and he stared round him with a stony and bewildered gaze. “You are better, sir--I am sure you are,” John whispered eagerly. “I am sorry--so very sorry I hit so hard--” “Hush! Fetch a doctor--will you--and--the girl;” after jerking forth which few words (for he paused between each, and seemed to speak with difficulty) Colonel Norcott fell back again to all appearance inanimate. John never hesitated for a moment as to the propriety of obeying these urgent--for aught he knew, dying--behests. His own conscience was so sorely smiting him for that deed of blood, that any act of reparation, any deed of penance, however painful, which could have been imposed upon him, he would have cheerfully undertaken. The first persons whom he chanced to meet, while hurrying in search of medical aid, were his mother and his wife. Frightened by his white face and agitated manner, they stopped and questioned him, John only finding breath to reply incoherently, “For the love of God, don’t hinder me! I’m going as fast as I can for a doctor for Colonel Norcott.” “But what _has_ happened? What is the matter?” persisted the scared women, who felt instinctively that something more than a common accident to a man whom he disliked had so disturbed John’s usually placid temperament. “The matter!” repeated John wildly, while he hurried on even faster than before. “The matter is, that he is dying, and that I have killed him! Now be quiet, both of you, and don’t make it worse by screaming. I didn’t mean to kill him--you don’t suppose that--I might almost say, though I’m not going to--that it was an accident, and--but I remember--I’m losing my head I think--he asked for you, Honor--wished to see you before he died.” “Me! What can I do? O, John--” “Ah, yes! You don’t know--God forgive me for it all, and for hating him as I did! Mother--yes, that’s the best way--you walk on sharp, and send the first lad you meet for Mr. Kempshall, and bring back people to help, and brandy--anything, while I say a word or two of this to Honor.”