“Hilary, old boy,” he said, “remember where we are, and what a distance we have to go. Won’t it be better to accept Miss Cranstoun’s offer and go to her house, to get your wound dressed by the doctor there?” Hilary suddenly raised his head, and spoke in tones of unexpected emphasis. “I wish I’d let the little vixen break her neck!” he remarked, viciously. “And I certainly am not going to accept the hospitality of a man who takes snapshots at any stranger who is fool enough to try to oblige his daughter.” There was a sound of quick footsteps over the dead leaves and twigs. Miss Cranstoun had joined them in time to overhear Hilary’s last words. It was too dark to see her face, but her tone was courteous, if cold. “It was not my father who fired that shot,” she said, quietly, “but one of the keepers. Stephen!” she called, authoritatively, to some one behind her. “This is the gentleman whom you wounded by your stupid mistake.” The squarely built figure of a young, black-bearded man, in the dress of a gamekeeper and carrying a gun, appeared in attendance on her. “I am very sorry, gentlemen,” he said, in a dogged manner, without looking at them, “but in the half light I thought it was a tramp worrying the young mistress, and so I fired my gun off to frighten him. I hadn’t any thought to hit any one.” “Your confounded carelessness may have very serious results,” said Lord Carthew. “My friend is half-unconscious now from loss of blood. You must help me to get him out of this wood, and to bind up his shoulder roughly until we can get a doctor for him.” Hilary muttered an impatient protest as the gamekeeper, in obedience to a few hurried words of command from Miss Cranstoun, assisted Hilary back to the spot where they had left the horse, with his bridle fastened to a tree. The young Yorkshireman’s coat was already saturated with blood, and Miss Cranstoun stood by, silent and very white, while Lord Carthew and her father’s servant drew off the wounded man’s coat, and made with their handkerchiefs a temporary bandage for the injured shoulder. “He must come to the house at once,” burst from her lips at last. “You can see quite well he can hardly walk. Stephen, alter the saddle, and help him on to Zephyr.” “I can very well walk, Miss Cranstoun. There is not the slightest need for all this fuss and trouble,” said Hilary, still with the same coldness he had before shown in his manner towards her. “Nonsense, man! Miss Cranstoun is perfectly right, and we are very much obliged to her. Now, help us all you can in getting on this horse, for lifting you is no light matter, I can tell you.”