"For God's sake, help a dying man!"
The baronet stared around aghast. Right before him, under the trees, lay the prostrate figure of a fallen man. To leap off his horse, to bend over him, was but the work of an instant. Judge of his dismay when he beheld the livid, discolored face of Captain Hunsden.
"Great Heaven! Captain Hunsden! What horrible accident is this?"
"Sir Everard," he murmured, in a thick, choking tone, "go—tell
Harrie—poor Harrie—"
His voice died away.
"Were you thrown from your horse? Were you waylaid?" asked the young man, thinking of his own recent adventure.
"One of those apoplectic attacks. I was thrown. Tell Harrie—"
Again the thick, guttural accents failed.
Sir Everard raised his head, and knelt for a moment bewildered. How should he leave him here alone while he went in search of a conveyance?
Just then, as if sent by Providence, the Reverend Cyrus Green, in his chaise, drove into the woodland path.