Leaving Dorothy standing on the threshold of the doorway, Manners advanced to the injured man's side, and endeavoured to sooth him by instilling into his mind a ray of hope.

"O, Dorothy," gasped the priest, disregarding the words of his would-be comforter, "I am dying, dying like a dog. O, for some of Dame Durden's simples now. For the blessed Virgin's sake fetch Sir Benedict. O, dear! O, dear!" and he sank back with a groan.

Dorothy turned, and with a fast-beating heart hastened to deliver the captive knight, while her lover endeavoured to staunch the flow of blood by binding the wound tightly up in strips of cloth.

By dint of much shaking and shouting cousin Benedict was at last roused from his drunken sleep, and also at last was made to understand somewhat of the exigencies of the case for which his aid was needed.

"I will come soon," he exclaimed, in answer to Dorothy's entreaties.

"You must come now!" she replied, in a peremptory tone, which admitted of no prevarication.

"Where is the wine?" he asked, as he rubbed his eyes and glanced around; "why, this is the kitchen."

"Come along, Benedict; Father Philip is dying, I tell you. Do you understand?"

Benedict a Woode stood up as still as he was able, and rubbed off a quant.i.ty of the salt which tenaciously adhered to his garments, then, noticing for the first time that he was in the great salt trough, he exclaimed in a tone of great surprise, "What! have I been here?"

"You have," she answered severely, "but why do you not come and succour Father Philip? He is bleeding to death, while you, who are staying here, might help him."

As the knight rapidly collected his scattered senses, he became more and more ashamed of himself; and now, clambering out of his ignominious confinement, with bowed head and tottering feet he humbly followed his fair companion across the yard. Not even the gigantic vat, which was still steaming from a recent brew, the pungent odour of which could be plainly scented, induced him to alter his course; he meekly entered the room at Dorothy's heels.

Whatever effects of his recent indulgence remained with him before he entered the room, they were quickly dispelled as he beheld the pallid countenance of his friend, and falling down upon his knees, he scrutinised the injuries the venerable father had received.

A brief examination satisfied Benedict that, unskilled as he was, the case was entirely beyond his power, and he knew not what to do. He unloosened the bandages which Manners had made, and let the already over-bled man bleed still more; and then, bethinking himself of summoning superior aid, he hastily concocted a dose of simples, which the sufferer could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take, despatched a mounted messenger to Derby, and sat himself down at the foot of the bench to await the course of events.

The effect produced by the dose was evidently what Benedict had wished, and for a long time the sufferer was far more quiet.

"O, Benedict," he feebly exclaimed, "my head, my head!"

"Well, it will be better soon."

"Nay, I know I'm dying; 'twas a fatal fall, and I cannot shrive myself."

Benedict saw that his patient was getting excited, and he mixed another draught, which the father absolutely refused to take.

"Oh, dear, I'm dying, dying," he gasped.

"Tut, man! rubbish. There's life enough left yet in you. We shall be out together again in a day or two."

"Send for another brother," pursued the unfortunate man. "I am dying; my end has come, and I know it."

"Tut, man!" returned the knight, "I tell you you will be better soon."

"A witch told me I should die like this," continued the father obstinately, "and the time has come. I am too old to survive it now."

"Go to sleep, father," interrupted Manners, "you ought not to talk now; you want rest."

"Yes, sleep," a.s.sented a Woode.

"I cannot, I am dying," he gasped; and he groaned in agony again and again.

"Father Philip," interposed Dorothy, "you must rest yourself. Master Manners is a soldier and has seen many hurt like you, and even worse; you must do his bidding an you would get well again."

"What in the name of faith does all this mean?" asked Margaret, as she stepped into the room. "What is all this stir and commotion about?"

"I am dying, Margaret," repeated the confessor, as he gasped for very breath. "I thought to marry thee, my daughter, but now it is denied me. You will pray for the repose of the soul of Father Philip, will you not?" he inquired, looking up into her face as she bent over him.

"When you are dead, yes," she replied, "but not until."

"Don't talk to him, Mistress Margaret," said Manners; "he will only injure himself by talking in return. I have enjoined quietness, but he will take no heed. He ought to refresh himself by quietness, and sleep if possible, does he not; is not that correct, Everard?"

"Aye, it is indeed,"

"I shall be dead soon, Margaret, and--"

"Go to sleep, man, or at least lie still," growled a Woode. "What is the use of all my care and simples if you won't do as I order you?"

"And you will ask the baron to forgive an old man's follies, Margaret?" slowly pursued the father, between the gasps, quite heedless of the counsel given him to remain silent.

"I'll stop this," Sir Benedict broke in savagely, as he proceeded to tie the bandages on afresh. "Father Philip, you shall be silent, or die you must. That's better," he exclaimed, as his patient fell back unconscious. "He will, perforce, be quiet now awhile, and we may safely remove him to his room."

"Is he badly hurt, think you?" asked Margaret.

"I don't think he will ever get better again," Benedict gravely replied; "he is old, and it is a terrible wound."

"Neither do I think he will weather it," added Crowleigh; "I have seen men hurt like that before, fair Mistress Margaret, and we soldiers soon recognise the mark of death."

Slowly and with great care the poor father was carried into the hall, and as soon as he was laid upon his bed, seeing that there were no signs of returning consciousness, Margaret and Dorothy quietly retired.

"Meg," exclaimed the younger sister, with glistening eyes, as they sat in cheerless solitude before the blazing logs in their own room, "I have something to tell thee, and I shall mayhap want your aid ere I have done."

She stopped short, to see if her sister had guessed her secret, but it was apparently undiscovered, so she went on.

"I don't expect Lady Maude will be very willing; she always opposes us, does she not?"

"Sometimes," said Margaret drily.

"He is not so rich as De la Zouch," pursued Dorothy, "so I don't think she will agree to it at first."

"To what? What do you mean? Father Philip's accident has turned your head, I verily believe," replied her sister, as a terrible suspicion of the truth flashed into her imagination.

"Nay, Meg, dear, listen. I have plighted my troth to-night."

Margaret jumped from her seat as if stung, and her face turned livid with anger.

"What!" she exclaimed, "you have dared to plight your troth to Master Manners?"

"To John Manners, yes."