"None whatever, sir," replied the housekeeper, rising. "I am so thankful you have come. We, none of us, knew what to do for him; and it is dreadful to see him lying there like that."
She moved away, leaving the doctor to his examination. Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty passed; then Dr. Gale turned to her with a very grave face.
"It is too late, Mrs. Hilliard. Sir Noel is a dead man."
"Dead!" repeated Mrs. Hilliard, trembling, and holding by a chair. "Oh, my lady! my lady!"
"I am going to bleed him," said the doctor, "to restore consciousness. He may last until morning. Send for Lady Thetford at once."
Arneaud started up. Mrs. Hilliard looked at him, wringing her hands.
"Break it gently, Arneaud. Oh, my lady! my dear lady! so young, and so pretty—and only married five months!"
The swiss valet left the room. Dr. Gale got out his lancet, and desired Mrs. Hilliard to hold the basin. At first the blood refused to flow—but presently it came in a little feeble stream. The closed eyelids fluttered; there was a restless movement, and Sir Noel Thetford opened his eyes on this mortal life once more. He looked first at the doctor, grave and pale, then at the housekeeper, sobbing on her knees by the bed. He was a young man of seven-and-twenty, fair and handsome, as it was in the nature of the Thetfords to be.
"What is it?" he faintly asked. "What is the matter?"
"You are hurt, Sir Noel," the doctor answered, sadly; "you have been thrown from your horse. Don't attempt to move—you are not able."