Presently they came to a point at which their roads parted, but Rorie still rode on by Vixen.
"Isn't that your nearest way?" asked Vixen, pointing down the cross-road with the ivory handle of her whip.
"I am not going the nearest way. I am going to the Abbey House with you."
"I wouldn't be so rude as to say Don't, but I think poor Sultan must be tired."
"Sultan shall have a by-day to-morrow."
They went into an oak plantation, where a broad open alley led from one side of the enclosure to the other. The wood had a mysterious look in the late afternoon, when the shadows were thickening under the tall thin trees. There was an all-pervading ghostly grayness as in a shadowy under-world. They rode silently over the thick wet carpet of fallen leaves, the horses starting a little now and then at the aspect of a newly-barked trunk lying white across the track. They were silent, having, in sooth, very little to say to each other just at this time. Vixen was nursing her wrathful feelings; Rorie felt that his future was confused and obscure. He ought to do something with his life, perhaps, as his mother had so warmly urged. But his soul was stirred by no ambitious promptings.
They were within two hundred yards of the gate at the end of the enclosure, when Vixen gave a sudden cry:
"Did papa's horse stumble?" she asked; "look how he sways in his saddle."
Another instant, and the Squire reeled forward, and fell headforemost across his horse's shoulder. The fall was so sudden and so heavy, that the horse fell with him, and then scrambled up on to his feet again affrighted, swung himself round, and rushed past Roderick and Vixen along the plashy track.
Vixen was off her horse in a moment, and had flown to her father's side. He lay like a log, face downwards upon the sodden leaves just inside the gate. The farmer had dismounted and was stooping over him, bridle in hand, with a frightened face.