No other fate seemed to be before him but that, and he told himself that after all he had sold his life cheaply. "Found dead on the Scotch moors," would be the verdict about him.
What would the world say? What would his golden-haired darling say when she heard that he was dead?
As the hot tears blinded his eyes--tears for Madaline, not for himself--a light suddenly flashed into them, and he found himself quite close to the window of a house. With a deep-drawn, bitter sob, he whispered to himself that he was saved. He had just strength enough to knock at the door; and when it was opened he fell across the threshold, too faint and exhausted to speak, a sudden darkness before his eyes.
When he had recovered a little, he found that several gentlemen were gathered around him, and that one of them was holding a flask of whisky to his lips.
"That was a narrow escape," said a cheery, musical voice. "How long have you been on foot?"
"Since eight this morning," he replied.
"And now it is nearly eight at night! Well, you may thank Heaven for preserving your life."
Lord Arleigh turned away with a sigh. How little could any one guess what life meant for him--life spent without love--love--without Madaline!
"I have known several lose their lives in this way," continued the same voice. "Only last year poor Charley Hartigan was caught in a similar storm, and he lay for four days dead before he was found. This gentleman has been fortunate."
Lord Arleigh roused himself and looked around. He found himself the center of observation. The room in which he was lying was large and well furnished, and from the odor of tobacco it was plainly used as a smoking-room.