'None in the world. It was that odious Sir Harry Bracton--was not it?' 'Why so odious, Rachel? How can you tell which was in the wrong? I only know he seems to be a better marksman than your poor brother.' Rachel looked at her with something of haughty and surprised displeasure, but said nothing. 'You look at me, Radie, as if I were a monster--or _monstress_, I should say--whereas I am only a Brandon. Don't you remember how our great ancestor, who fought for the House of York, changed suddenly to Lancaster, and how Sir Richard left the King and took part with Cromwell, not for any particular advantage, I believe, or for any particular reason even, but for wickedness and wounded pride, perhaps.' 'I don't quite see your meaning, Dorcas. I can't understand how _your_ pride has been hurt; but if Stanley had any, I can well imagine what torture it must have endured; wretched, wicked, punished fool!' 'You suspect what they fought about, Radie!' Rachel made no answer. 'You do, Radie, and why do you dissemble with me?' 'I don't dissemble; I don't care to speak; but if you will have me say so, I _do_ suspect--I think it must have originated in jealousy of you.' 'You look, Radie, as if you thought I had managed it--whereas I really did not care.' 'I do not understand you, Dorcas; but you appear to me very cruel, and you smile, as I say so.' 'I smile, because I sometimes think so myself.' With a fixed and wrathful stare Rachel returned the enigmatical gaze of her beautiful cousin. 'If Stanley dies, Dorcas, Sir Harry Bracton shall hear of it. I'll lose my life, but he shall pay the forfeit of his crime.' So saying, Rachel left the room, and gliding through passages, and down stairs, she knocked at Stanley's door. The old woman opened it. 'Ah, Dorothy! I'm so glad to see _you_ here!' and she put a present in her hard, crumpled hand. So, noiselessly, Rachel Lake, without more parley, stepped into the room, and closed the door. She was alone with Stanley With a beating heart, and a kind of chill stealing over her, by her brother's bed. The room was not so dark that she could not see distinctly enough. There lay her brother, such as he was--still her brother, on the bleak, neutral ground between life and death. His features, peaked and earthy, and that look, so new and peculiar, which does not savour of life upon them. He did not move, but his strange eyes gazed cold and earnest from their deep sockets upon her face in awful silence. Perhaps he thought he saw a phantom. 'Are you better, dear?' whispered Rachel. His lips stirred and his throat, but he did not speak until a second effort brought utterance, and he murmured, 'Is that you, Radie?' 'Yes, dear. Are you better?' '_No_. I'm shot. I shall die to-night. Is it night yet?' 'Don't despair, Stanley, dear. The great London doctor, Sir Francis Seddley, will be with you early in the morning, and Chelford has great confidence in him. I'm sure he will relieve you.'