"Yes, it is, unhappily, of Sir Oswald I have to speak."
"Speak quickly, then. What has happened? You are agonizing me, Mr.
Carrington—for pity's sake, speak! Your face fills me with fear!"
"Your fears are, unhappily, too well founded. Sir Oswald has been thrown from his horse, on his way across the moor, and lies dangerously hurt, at the ruins of Yarborough Tower—that black building on the edge of the moor yonder. A lad has just brought me the tidings."
"Let me go to him—for heaven's sake, let me go at once! Dangerously hurt—he is dangerously hurt, you say?"
"I fear so, from the boy's account."
"And we have no medical man among our company. Yes; you are a surgeon—you can be of assistance."
"I trust so, my dear Lady Eversleigh. I shall hurry to Sir Oswald immediately, and in the meantime they have sent from the tower for medical help."
"I must go to him!" said Honoria, wildly. "Call the servants, Mr.
Carrington! My carriage—this moment!"
She could scarcely utter the words in her excitement. Her voice had a choking sound, and but for the surgeon's supporting arm she must have fallen prone on the grass at his feet.
As she clung to his arm, as she gasped out her eager entreaties that he would take her to her husband, a faint rustling stirred the underwood beneath some sycamores at a little distance, and curious eyes peered through the foliage.