If it had been the coldest night of the year, Charles Tyrrell would have been well repaid for what was, in fact, no sacrifice. But it was clear, and beautiful, and warm; and as the coach rolled along, with the fine summer's moon pouring her bright light over the sleeping world, he enjoyed himself highly, till a gray streak here and there upon the edge of the eastern sky, and a faint indescribable glistening about, the tops of the hills, told that the orb of day was soon about to rise.

They had now come very near to the seacoast, and were within a few miles of the spot where, winding round the deep shores of a small bay, the road turned to pass the park of Sir Francis Tyrrell. The distance by the road might be about ten miles; through the wood it was less than half; and so fine had been the night, that Charles Tyrrell had almost made up his mind to alight at that spot, and take the shorter path in order to enjoy the morning freshness more at leisure.

As they approached the shore, however, and the day began to dawn, a thick sea-fog came on, unusual at that period of the year, but which took away all promise of pleasure from the idea of walking through the wood. The high road itself was scarcely discernible; and as they turned away from the sea again to sweep round the bay and cut across the opposite point, they could hear the voices of persons talking close by the road, without being able to see where they were.

The coachman was going on at a furious rate, and one of the passengers who sat on the box had just said, "You had better take care, or you will run over something or somebody," when some object coming out of the wood on the left, which neither the coachman nor any of the passengers could see, startled the leaders, who dashed violently up the bank on the opposite side of the road. The coach was carried after them and instantly upset, and Charles Tyrrell, with the rest of the passengers on the outside, felt himself instantly cast with enormous force towards the wood on the left.

Of what happened after for some time he had no consciousness. He felt, indeed, a violent blow upon the head, but that was all; and when, after a long lapse of time, he regained his senses for a few minutes, it was but to feel, or at least to think, he was dying, and to sink again into insensibility. Those brief moments, however, had been sufficient for many a painful thought to cross his mind. He thought of Lucy Effingham certainly; but we must tell the truth, and acknowledge that the first, the deepest, the most painful thought was of his mother. Lucy, he knew, had other ties to life; and though she might grieve, she would not grieve without consolation. Lady Tyrrell had none but him, and, had he had power to speak, he might have exclaimed with the wounded cavalier, Prince Baldwin, in the Marquis of Mantua:

"O triste Reyna mi madre,
Dios te quiera consolar,
Que yà es quebrado el espejo
En que te solias mirar.
"Siempre de mi recelaste
Sobresalto de pesar
Ahora de aqui adelante
No te cumple rezelar."

However, as we have said, he spoke not; for there was a faint sickness upon him, a deathlike sensation at his heart, which took away all power; and the first feelings that assailed him instantly cast him back into insensibility once more. How long he remained in this state, he, of course, could in no degree calculate; but when he at length opened his eyes again, he felt much better than he had been before, and could see around him, which had not been the case on the former occasion, when all had been dim and indistinct. It was night, and the place in which he was had the appearance of a fisherman's cottage; and stretched upon a rough but clean bed, he gazed round, and saw several anxious faces watching him by the light of a single candle.

All those faces but one were known to him, and they were those of honest John Hailes, the fisherman, his wife, and his eldest boy, who now, apparently recovered from the injury he had sustained, but pale and eager with anxiety, was holding a basin under Charles's arm, while the blood flowed into it from an incision just made by a gentleman in black, who was sitting by the bedside, and whom Charles Tyrrell naturally concluded to be a surgeon. The medical man immediately saw that consciousness had returned, and slightly moving the arm backward and forward, he caused the bleeding to proceed more freely, every drop that flowed giving his patient greater relief.

After a short time Charles found himself able to speak, and was about to ask some questions when the surgeon held up his finger, saying, "Perfect quietness, and you will soon be quite well! There is no bone broken, no injury to the scull, merely a severe cut and concussion. But you must be perfectly quiet; neither speak nor move, nor think, if it be possible, till to-morrow morning. I will stay with you all night, and not leave you till I am perfectly sure you are safe. Your father has been informed of what has occurred, as soon as these good people could send up to let him know. But their first care was, of course, most wisely to seek for medical advice, which rendered it late. You will soon be quite well, however, so keep your mind at ease."

His arm was then bandaged up, and, by the surgeon's direction, Hailes and his wife and children left the room in which the young gentleman was, and retired into an inner chamber, keeping everything as quiet as possible. The surgeon then resumed his seat by his patient's bedside, shaded the lamp, and applied himself to read, refraining from speaking even a word. Charles Tyrrell did not sleep for some time, however, and towards midnight the surgeon felt his pulse, and gave him something to drink, which seemed both to cool and tranquillize him: for in a few moments he fell asleep, and did not wake again till the sun was high up in the sky.