One thought was the motive power which sent Aileen running up the road towards the pastures, by crossing which she could reach in a few minutes the quarry woods: "I must know if he is dead; if he is not dead, I must try to save him from a living death."
This thought alone sent her speeding over the darkened slopes. She was light of foot, but sometimes she stumbled; she was up and on again—the sheepfold her goal. The quarry woods stood out dark against the clear sky; there seemed to be more light on these uplands than below in The Gore; she saw the sheepfold like a square blot on the pasture slope. She reached it—should she call aloud—call his name? How find him?
She listened intently; the wind had died down; the sheep were huddling and moving restlessly within the fold; this movement seemed unusual. She climbed the rough stone wall; the sheep were massed in one corner, heads to the wall, tails to the bare centre of the fold; they kept crowding closer and more close.
In that bared space of hoof-trampled earth she saw him lying.
She leaped down, the frightened sheep riding one another in their frantic efforts to get away from the invaders of their peace. She knelt by him; lifted his head on her knee; her hands touched his sleeve, she drew back from something warm and wet.
"Champney—O Champney, what has he done to you!" she moaned in hopeless terror; "what shall I do—"
"Is it you—Aileen?—help me up—"
With her aid he raised himself to a sitting posture.
"It must have been the loss of blood—I felt faint suddenly." He spoke clearly. "Can you help me?"