She failed to rouse him, for his sleep was the sleep of death!
It was disease of the heart, the doctors said, and he had thus passed away—died in harness; a pen was yet clutched in his right hand, and an unfinished legal document lay beneath it.
Dulcie fainted, and was borne away by the servants to her own room—they were old and affectionate country folks, who had been long with Llewellen Carlyon, and loved him and his daughter well.
Poor Dulcie remained long unconscious, the sudden shock was so dreadful to her, and when she woke from it, the old curate, Mr. Pentreath, who had baptized Florian and herself, was standing near her bed.
'My poor bruised lamb,' said he, kindly and tenderly, as he passed his wrinkled hand over her rich and now dishevelled tresses.
'What has happened?' she asked wildly.
'You fainted, Dulcie.'
'Why—I never fainted before.'
'She don't seem to remember, sir,' whispered an old servant, who saw the vague and wild inquiring expression of her eyes.
'Drink this, child, and try to eat a morsel,' said the curate, putting a cup of coffee and piece of toast before her.