A youth in a livery riding coat lay senseless on the ground,
partly covered by the black fragments of the curtain, the iron rod
clenched in one hand, the other arm doubled under him. A face
absolutely white, with long snowy beard and hair hung over him, and
an equally white pair of hands tried to lift the head. Jumbo had
in a second sprung down, removed the fallen table, and come to his
masters help. "Struck head with this," he said, as he tried to
unclasp the fingers from the bar, and pointed to a grazed blow
close to the temple.
"We must lay him on my bed," said Mr. Belamour. Then, seeing the
girl's horror-stricken countenance, "Ah, child, would that you had
been patient; but it was overtasking you! Call Aylward, I beg of
you. Tell her he is here, badly hurt. What, you do not know him,"
as her bewildered eyes and half-opened lips implied the question
she could not utter, "you do not know him? Sir Amyas--my nephew--
your true husband!"
"Oh! and I have killed him!" she cried, with clasped hands.
"Hush, child, no, with God's mercy! Only call the woman and bring
a light."
She rushed away, and appeared, a pale terrified figure, with the
smell of fire on her hair and white dress, in the room where Mrs.
Aylward was reading her evening chapter.
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