But presently he came back to himself with a start. He distinctly heard, a few paces in front of him, the voice of the man who had roused all the Cain in him, and made him afraid of himself. And he knew, by the sudden wild riot in his pulses, and the mad jealousy in his heart, that he was no better to be trusted than before, and so, to his infinite regret later, he hurried from the spot, and made his way back to the inn as fast as he could.
He did not even feel safe until he had bolted the parlor door, although Mr. Wiginton distinctly said he did not expect another customer that night, and shut up the house at eleven o’clock, as usual.
Colonel Dacre went to his room then, even undressed, and lay down, although he knew sleeping was out of the question. He heard all the hours strike up to three o’clock, and then he fell into what seemed like a doze, although all his senses were unnaturally acute. So acute, indeed, that when he heard a groan presently, he knew what direction it had proceeded from, and did not wait for a repetition to spring out of bed, and hurry into his clothes.
In another minute he was down the stairs, and, unbolting the door softly, so as not to disturb mine host, he found himself in the garden.
Another groan, fainter though than the first, guided him to a little copse by the roadside, where lay, apparently in the agonies of death, Lady Gwendolyn’s “braw wooer,” the man whose splendid privileges he had envied the night before.
For one cruel moment Colonel Dacre rejoiced to see his enemy laid so low; but better feelings intervened, and he remembered nothing but that the other was in a sore strait, and needed his aid.
He knelt down beside him, and said quite gently:
“I am afraid you are hurt. Have you had an accident?”
The dim eyes unclosed, and the blue lips muttered a word faintly. But although Colonel Dacre bent close down he could not catch it, and he shook his head expressively.
The dying man made a great effort, and repeated, in a loud whisper: