"Looks as if there'd been a struggle," he said. "But no matter now. Take that gate off its hinges, lads, and lay him on it. We'll carry him down to the Holme."
The gate was torn off its hinges—how little they guessed that it was not for the first time that night!—and some coats laid upon it; then they stooped to raise poor Blair.
As they did so, Austin Ambrose slid forward.
At the sound of the words "foul play," he had aroused. All was lost; Margaret dead, Blair dead; all his toil and ingenuity thrown away. But if these rustics were suspicious it was time to think of his own safety.
"Let me see!" he said, in a low voice. "He—he is a friend of mine. Who said 'foul play?' If I thought so—but, no! Look!" and he pointed to the stirrup through which the foot was thrust. "My poor friend was thrown from the saddle; the mare bolted and must have dragged him. His foot is still in the stirrup."
"That's true," said one. "Ah! if that stirrup leather had slipped out sooner——"
Almost in silence they carried him down to the small farm called the Holme; and the good-hearted people roused from their beds did their best for him.
In a short time he was undressed and put to bed.
Austin Ambrose, calm and self-possessed, but very sorrowful, showed the affliction of a brother.
"I am afraid it is all over!" he said, as they gathered round the bed and looked at the handsome face and stalwart form, which many of them had seen depart in the morning so full of life and happiness.