It fell out that Jack Henderson, running headlong down the hill, met a village doctor, in his high gig, returning from a long and weary round of country visits.
Jack hailed him, and the doctor drew up his tired nag.
'There's a man lying on the hill half a mile up the road. Go to him quick—it's life or death.'
'Why, you are covered with blood, young man,' the doctor said, as Jack flew past on his downward way to Bristol. 'I say,' he shouted, 'come back. I may want help.'
But Jack took no heed, and the doctor, whipping up his old mare, soon reached the place where Mr Bayfield lay.
The storm-cloud had passed, and again there was a gleam of sunshine flooding the country side with fitful radiance.
When the doctor leaped down from his gig he found Bryda alone, kneeling by the motionless form. Silas had gone, at her bidding, down the by-road which branched off the highway, where she remembered she had heard Mr Bayfield say a horse and gig were waiting.
'Is he dead? Oh, say he is not dead!' Bryda moaned. 'Say he is not dead!'
But the doctor did not reply. He unfastened the high cravat, with its lace ends, unbuttoned the two-fold waistcoats, one of cherry colour the other of buff, the deep red edge showing against the paler hue. He flung back the frilled shirt and put his head against Mr Bayfield's side, took the long, limp hands in his, put his finger on the pulse, and finally drew his large watch from his fob and looked narrowly down at its round white-rimmed dial.
'No, he is not dead,' he said shortly to Bryda; 'go to my gig, open the well behind, and bring me a black case—make haste.'