Jack stood motionless as one in a dream. Blood was streaming down his cheeks from a cut in the temple, and his face was almost as wan and livid as that which was turned up to the darkened sky, on which the pitiless hailstones danced and leaped, unheeded and unfelt.
Thus they stood, when steps were heard plodding down the hill, and old Silas, the shepherd from Bishop's Farm, came up.
'What's to do?' he said. 'Miss Biddy, my dear, what's to do?'
'Get a doctor,' she gasped. 'They have had a fight, and—he is—hurt.'
'Dead,' Silas said, looking down at Mr Bayfield as he had looked down on the lamb a year ago, 'dead. His skull is cracked, I'll warrant.'
'Oh, go for a doctor, Jack. Run quick to Bristol and send a doctor. Oh, Jack! Jack!'
Her voice seemed to wake Jack from his stupor.
'Yes,' he said, 'I'll send a doctor. Yes. Good-bye, Bryda, good-bye, and—' Jack covered his face with his hands, and sobs shook his large frame. 'He angered me past bearing, Bryda. I did it for your sake,' he sobbed. 'Say one word to me before I go.'
'Oh, Jack! Jack! What can I say except God forgive you?' She laid her little hand tenderly on Jack's fingers, through which the tears were trickling, and repeated, 'Yes, God forgive you and help me.'