"How did it happen?" asked the doctor, hardly able to speak for the furious pace at which they were going. "I thought he was at Lady Stokestone's ball."
"He did go," replied the groom; "leastways he took my lady there; but said he had a friend to meet from London at the Royal George to-night, and he rode back. We don't, none of us, know how it happened; for a better or surer rider than Sir Noel there ain't in Devonshire; but Diana must have slipped and threw him. She came galloping in by herself about half an hour ago, all blown; and me and three more set off to look for Sir Noel. We found him about twenty yards from the gates, lying on his face in the mud, and as stiff and cold as if he was dead."
"And you brought him home and came for me?"
"Directly, sir. Some wanted to send word to my lady, but Mrs. Hilliard, she thought how you had best see him first, sir, so's we'd know what danger he was really in before alarming her ladyship."
"Quite right, William. Let us trust it may not be serious. Had Sir Noel been—I mean, I suppose he had been dining.
"Well, doctor," said William, "Arneaud, that's his valey de chambre, you know, said he thought he had taken more wine than prudent going to Lady Stokestone's ball, which her ladyship is very particular about such, you know, sir."
"Ah! that accounts," said the doctor, thoughtfully; "and now, William, my man, don't let's talk any more, for I feel completely blown already."
Ten minutes' sharp riding brought them to the great entrance gates of Thetford Towers. An old woman came out of a little lodge, built in the huge masonry, to admit them, and they dashed up the long winding avenue under the surging oaks and chestnuts. Five minutes more, and Dr. Gale was running up a polished staircase of black, and slippery oak, down an equally wide and black and slippery passage, and into the chamber where Sir Noel lay.
A grand and stately chamber, lofty, dark, and wainscoted, where the wax-candles made luminous clouds in the darkness, and the wood-fire on the marble hearth failed to give heat. The oak floor was overlaid with Persian rugs; the windows were draped in green velvet; and the chairs were upholstered in the same. Near the centre of the apartment stood the bed, tall, broad, quaintly carved, curtained in green damask, and on it, cold and apparently lifeless, lay the wounded man. Mrs. Hilliard, the housekeeper, sat beside him; and Arneaud, the Swiss valet, with a frightened face, stood near the fire.
"Very shocking business this, Mrs. Hilliard," said the doctor, removing his hat and gloves—"very shocking. How is he? Any signs of consciousness yet?"