Dorothy Vernon had impatiently awaited the conclusion of the contest, and the prodigious amount of faith she had in her lover's capabilities, coupled with what she had already witnessed of the fight, led her to hope that he would yet return victorious to deliver her.

She had ceased to struggle ere the victors returned, partly because of the hope with which she had deluded herself, and partly because her attempts had only wearied her without bringing her any nearer to success; but at the first glimpse of the slowly approaching company she broke away from her too trustful captors and fled precipitately towards the advancing party.

"Let me go to him; is he hurt?" she cried, as one of her guardians overtook her and pulled her to a standstill, and starting forward again she left a fragment of her dress between the man's fingers, and hastened on again until she reached her lover's side.

"Speak, John," she exclaimed in piteous tones, as she gazed upon his pallid face and livid form. "Speak just one word to me."

But Manners did not speak. Thoroughly stunned by the blows he had received, he lay quite unconscious in the position in which he had been placed, and he was so weakened by the loss of blood from his wounds that his immediate return to consciousness was exceedingly problematical. He lay deaf, and apparently dead, whilst Dorothy pleaded in vain for a word from his lips.

"Just one word," she repeated, pathetically.

"Poor Lady," exclaimed Sir Henry's page, who was in charge of the party. "Don't take it to heart so much; he will come round soon, and be himself again. Nay, touch her not," he commanded, as one of the men was about to take her away, "she will do no harm."

"He is dead," she sobbed, and ere she could be a.s.sured that her conjecture was wrong she fainted away, and was gently laid beside her lover, while they were borne swiftly and silently, by sequestered roads, from the scene of the adventure.

Sir Henry watched them departing till a turn in the road hid them from view, and then, bethinking himself of his position, he mounted his steed and rode rapidly away, feeling immensely relieved that, after all, he had proved successful.

A few minutes in the saddle sufficed him, and then dismounting, he took of his hat and belaboured it well with the stock end of his whip.

He satisfied himself at length, and ceasing from his efforts in that direction he laid it on the ground and surveyed the effect.

It looked battered indeed, and evidently well pleased with the result, the knight set busily to work upon his clothes. He carefully tore them here and there with a sharp-pointed piece of wood, while to complete the deception, he spoiled the appearance of his attire by daubing it freely with dirt.

"I trow that will be enough," he murmured, as ceasing his labours he complacently gazed upon the transformation he had effected; "but no!"

he added, "I had best be on the safe side," and he gently scratched his hands to give himself the appearance of having pa.s.sed through a long and stern struggle.

"A bruise or two would improve my appearance considerably," he added, "but then bruises hurt and are apt to turn awkward; I think I might safely spare myself the pain; but I might, at all events, break my whip-stock and carry the end of it back;" and having settled these points to his own satisfaction, he mounted his saddle afresh, and setting spurs to his horse he never drew rein until long after he had pa.s.sed out of the lane, and was well on the high road to Haddon.

As he neared the vicinity of the Hall he proceeded to put into practice what yet remained unfinished of his disguise. He had treated his own person, and now he turned his attention to the faithful steed which had carried him often and well.

There was no time to waste. He had lost much precious time already. He would have found little time in which to be sentimental had he been so inclined, but such an idea never entered into his head, and pulling his jack-knife out of his pocket, he opened the blade and stabbed the horse in the shoulder.

As previously related, De la Zouch had thought of ornamenting himself with a few slight bruises, but he had decided to forego whatever advantages might accrue to him from such a course of conduct, but now the matter was decided for him in a manner which he had never considered.

It had never flashed upon the heated brain of the malignant knight that wounding a horse was a very delicate operation to perform, and in his reckless hurry he had never taken into account that such conduct would be attended with any danger, or he would have proceeded to accomplish his design in a more cautious fashion; and it was not until the horse kicked out after the first blow that Sir Henry de la Zouch became suddenly aware of the danger of his position. He had not the power to stay the second thrust, and before he could retreat out of danger he was sent sprawling into the hedge bottom.

Fortunately, the effects of the blow were considerably diminished, inasmuch as its greatest force was already spent ere De la Zouch was struck. Had it not been for this circ.u.mstance he would have come off ill indeed, but even as it was he was sorely injured, and lay insensible in the place where he had fallen until he opened his eyes at dusk and found himself being lifted up.

"Where am I?" he gasped, as he mechanically rubbed his eyes and gazed around. "I am hurt."

"Lie still awhile," returned Crowleigh, for he it was who stood over him. "You will be yourself again directly," and raising his horn to his lips he blew a loud, clear note upon the still evening air.

"What does that portend?" asked the conscience-stricken and mistrustful knight. He feared that he was about to be carried off to answer for his misdeeds.

"There will be help soon," said Crowleigh. "Lie still, for you are hurt. You will be better by-and-by. Drink this," and he filled his horn with water and offered it to him.

De la Zouch took the water and drank it off. It appeared to do him good, for he rapidly rallied, and the rea.s.suring words of Crowleigh had a magical effect in clearing his brow and helping on his recovery.

"Am I much hurt?" he inquired with a look of intense agony upon his brow.

"Bruised and stunned, I think, that is all. Ha, here they come;" and, as he suddenly stopped speaking, the sound of the replying horns could be distinctly heard, and within a few minutes, from different quarters, over walls and fences, the hors.e.m.e.n came riding in by ones and twos until at last there numbered a full dozen.

"Oh!" groaned De la Zouch, loudly, "it is painful, cannot you relieve me?"

"Where is Sir George Vernon?" inquired Sir Everard; "have none of you seen him of late?"

No one had, but they had all blown their horns, so he was sure to be in soon.

De la Zouch shuddered at the mention of the King of the Peak--he was hardly himself again as yet, but he was fast rallying, and by the time that the baron arrived he was quite ready to meet him.

"Heigho! found at last;" exclaimed the baron, as he made his way through the group. "But whom have we here; tush, where is my Doll?"

De la Zouch, for answer, began to play his game, and he only replied to the query with a deceitful and prolonged groan.

"Where's my Dorothy?" impatiently repeated the baron, disregarding the agonised look which met his gaze.

"There--miles on," gasped Sir Henry, jerking his thumb over his shoulder, and pointing along the road by which he had just travelled; and then, as if the effort had been too much for him, he fell back panting upon the turf.

Sir George Vernon waited for no more, but hastily bestriding his saddle, he galloped away, bidding the others disperse again upon their search. Only Sir Thomas Stanley and one solitary retainer remained, and these from very different reasons; the former because he suspected foul play, and wished for the immediate future to have De la Zouch under his own eye; and the latter, much against his will, was constrained to tarry behind to help the unfortunate n.o.bleman back to Haddon.

"Twenty n.o.bles for the man who finds my Dorothy," shouted the baron as he rode off, "and twice twenty if there has been any knavery and the rogues are caught"; and as the knight of Ashby heard the sound of the galloping grow fainter he was fain to own himself so far only partially successful, and as he was lifted up to be carried away, he shut his eyes and ruminated on the probable present condition of his captives, and wondered where they were.

Dorothy soon awoke from the swoon into which she had fallen on seeing the prostrate condition of her lover, and being graciously permitted by the page to have a considerable amount of liberty, she soon busied herself in trying to restore Manners to consciousness.

Eustace, the page in question, had judged her aright. There was little fear now of her attempting to escape. Indeed, the thought never entered into her head; her whole attention was concentrated upon the one effort of restoring her lover to consciousness, and even the heart of the hardest of the rough men around her was softened by the picture of grief which she presented.

At last John Manners opened his eyes, and as he caught sight of Dorothy's tear-stained face bending over him, he smiled. His smile dispelled all Dorothy's fears, as the rising sun dispels the morning mist, and through her grief she smiled responsively back upon her lover.

Eustace witnessed his recovery with a profound sense of relief. It was in ignorance of the plot that he had been inveigled to obey his lord's behests, for though at Haddon De la Zouch had acquainted him with a part of the conspiracy, yet he had grossly deceived him. He had informed him that it was Dorothy Vernon's wish to flee to Ashby, and it was not until he was undeceived by the conduct of the maiden herself that the fullness of his master's treachery revealed itself to him.

True, he had been engaged on sundry occasions with his master in unworthy and unknightly deeds, but never until now had he perceived the outrageous conduct of his lord. His whole nature recoiled from the task which had been imposed upon him, and nothing but the extreme fear with which De la Zouch had inspired him during a long acquaintanceship held him back from releasing the two lovers on the way, and helping them back to Haddon.

He was not yet courageous enough to pursue such a course, however. He felt that his master's eye was upon him, and he could not shake the evil influence off; but, although failing in this particular, he gave them a practical token of his sympathy by offering them such food as he possessed--a small flagon of wine, purloined from Sir Henry's store, together with a rough rye cake, which were gratefully accepted as a token of friendship, and before long were thankfully consumed.

He tendered them gracefully to the captives, and without waiting to be thanked he made his way to the rear, where, forming the men in order, he divided them into two companies, and sending the one on in front, the other half walked a little distance behind, leaving Dorothy and her lover free to converse as they chose. In this order, without molestation or accident, they reached their destination as the grey light of the succeeding morning melted into the clearer light of riper day.

CHAPTER XXIII.

DARK SUSPICIONS.

But oh, that hapless maiden?-- Where may she wander now, whither betake her, From the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and thistles?

Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now.

Or, 'gainst the rugged bark of some broad elm Leans her unpillowed head, fraught with sad fears.

What, if in wild amazement and affright Or while we speak, within the direful grasp Of savage hunger.