Within the cool hall of Stretton House they were met by her ladyship and Mistress Winthrop, both pale, but the eyes of each wearing a vastly different expression. “What's this?” demanded her ladyship, as they trooped in. “Why do you bring him here?” “Because, madam,” answered Ostermore in a voice as hard as iron, “it imports to save his life; for if he dies, your son dies as surely--and on the scaffold.” Her ladyship staggered and flung a hand to her breast. But her recovery was almost immediate. “'Twas a duel--” she began stoutly. “'Twas murder,” his lordship corrected, interrupting--“murder, as any of these gentlemen can and will bear witness. Rotherby ran Mr. Caryll through the back after Mr. Caryll had spared his life.” “'Tis a lie!” screamed her ladyship, her lips ashen. She turned to Rotherby, who stood there in shirt and breeches and shoeless, as he had fought. “Why don't you say that it is a lie?” she demanded. Rotherby endeavored to master himself. “Madam,” he said, “here is no place for you.” “But is it true? Is it true what is being said?” He half-turned from her, with a despairing movement, and caught the sharp hiss of her indrawn breath. Then she swept past him to the side of the wounded man, who had been laid on a settle. “What is his hurt?” she inquired wildly, looking about her. But no one spoke. Tragedy--more far than the tragedy of that man's possible death--was in the air, and struck them all silent. “Will no one answer me?” she insisted. “Is it mortal? Is it?” His Grace of Wharton turned to her with an unusual gravity in his blue eyes. “We hope not, ma'am,” he said. “But it is as God wills.” Her limbs seemed to fail her, and she sank down on her knees beside the settle. “We must save him,” she muttered fearfully. “We must save his life. Where is the doctor? He won't die! Oh, he must not die!” They stood grouped about, looking on in silence, Rotherby in the background. Behind him again, on the topmost of the three steps that led up into the inner hall, stood Mistress Winthrop, white of face, a wild horror in the eyes she riveted upon the wounded and unconscious man. She realized that he was like to die. There was an infinite pity in her soul--and, maybe, something more. Her impulse was to go to him; her every instinct urged her. But her reason held her back. Then, as she looked, she saw with a feeling almost of terror that his eyes were suddenly wide open. “Wha--what?” came in feeble accents from his lips. There was a stir about him. “Never move, Justin,” said Gascoigne, who stood by his head. “You are hurt. Lie still. The doctor has been summoned.” “Ah!” It was a sigh. The wounded man closed his eyes a moment, then re-opened them. “I remember. I remember,” he said feebly. “It is--it is grave?” he inquired. “It went right through me. I remember!” He surveyed himself. “There's been a deal of blood lost. I am like to die, I take it.” “Nay, sir, we hope not--we hope not!” It was the countess who spoke.