Before they arrived at the bank, the colonel had carried Tregarva to it. Lancelot and two or three workmen, whom his cries had attracted, lifted the body on to the meadow. Honoria knelt quietly down on the grass, and watched, silent and motionless, the dead face, with her wide, awestruck eyes. 'God bless her for a kind soul!' whispered the wan weather-beaten field drudges, as they crowded round the body. 'Get out of the way, my men!' quoth the colonel. 'Too many cooks spoil the broth.' And he packed off one here and another there for necessaries, and commenced trying every restorative means with the ready coolness of a practised surgeon; while Lancelot, whom he ordered about like a baby, gulped down a great choking lump of envy, and then tasted the rich delight of forgetting himself in admiring obedience to a real superior. But there Tregarva lay lifeless, with folded hands, and a quiet satisfied smile, while Honoria watched and watched with parted lips, unconscious of the presence of every one. Five minutes!--ten! 'Carry him to the house,' said the colonel, in a despairing tone, after another attempt. 'He moves!' 'No!' 'He does!' 'He breathes!' 'Look at his eyelids!' Slowly his eyes opened. 'Where am I? All gone? Sweet dreams--blessed dreams!' His eye met Honoria's. One big deep sigh swelled to his lips and burst. She seemed to recollect herself, rose, passed her arm through Argemone's, and walked slowly away. CHAPTER IV: AN 'INGLORIOUS MILTON'