She moved away, leaving the doctor to his examination. Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty passed, then Dr. Gale turned to her with a very pale, grave face. "It is too late, Mrs. Hilliard. Sir Noel is a dead man!" "Dead?" repeated Mrs. Hilliard, trembling and holding by a chair. "Oh, my lady! my lady!" "I am going to bleed him," said the doctor, "to restore consciousness. He may last until morning. Send for Lady Thetford at once." Arneaud started up. Mrs. Hilliard looked at him, wringing her hands. "Break it gently, Arneaud. Oh, my lady! my dear lady! So young and so pretty--and only married five months!" The Swiss valet left the room. Dr. Gale got out his lancet, and desired Mrs. Hilliard to hold the basin. At first the blood refused to flow--but presently it came in a little, feeble stream. The closed eyelids fluttered; there was a restless movement and Sir Noel Thetford opened his eyes in this mortal life once more. He looked first at the doctor, grave and pale, then at the housekeeper, sobbing on her knees by the bed. He was a young man of seven-and-twenty, fair and handsome, as it was in the nature of the Thetfords to be. "What is it?" he faintly asked. "What is the matter?" "You are hurt, Sir Noel," the doctor answered, sadly; "you have been thrown from your horse. Don't attempt to move--you are not able." "I remember--I remember," said the young man, a gleam of recollection lighting up his ghastly face. "Diana slipped, and I was thrown. How long ago is that?" "About an hour." "And I am hurt? Badly." He fixed his eyes with a powerful lock on the doctor's face, and that good man shrunk away from the news he must tell. "Badly?" reiterated the young baronet, in a peremptory tone, that told all of his nature. "Ah! you won't speak, I see! I am, and I feel--I feel. Doctor, am I going to die?" He asked the question with a sudden wildness--a sudden horror of death, half starting up in bed. Still the doctor did not speak; still Mrs. Hilliard's suppressed sobs echoed in the stillness of the vast room. Sir Noel Thetford fell back on his pillow, a shadow as ghastly and awful as death itself lying on his face. But he was a brave man and the descendant of a fearless race; and except for one convulsive throe that shook him from head to foot, nothing told his horror of his sudden fate. There was a weird pause. Sir Noel lay staring straight at the oaken wall, his bloodless face awful in its intensity of hidden feeling. Rain and wind outside rose higher and higher, and beat clamorously at the windows; and still above them, mighty and terrible, rose the far-off voice of the ceaseless sea. The doctor was the first to speak, in hushed and awe-struck tones. "My dear Sir Noel, the time is short, and I can do little or nothing. Shall I send for the Rev. Mr. Knight?" The dying eyes turned upon him with a steady gaze. "How long have I to live? I want the truth." "Sir Noel, it is very hard, yet it must be Heaven's will. But a few hours, I fear."