But he trembled with dread when he saw Amber lying as still as death on the pile of rocks where she had fallen.
Oh, horrors! was she dead? It was more than likely, for her face was death-like, her eyes closed, and there was a bleeding wound near her temple, where it had struck in falling upon a sharp rock.
The poor pony lay among the shafts of the overturned phaeton, as he had fallen, and Cecil surmised that he had broken a limb; but he had no time to investigate, for Amber needed instant attention.
It seemed like a merciful provision of Providence that the accident had happened just in front of a neat, pretty cottage, and the inhabitants had witnessed it from their windows. A woman and a little girl hurried out, and helped Cecil to carry Amber into the house.
“Oh, the pretty lady; she is dead!” whimpered the child, as the death-white face of Amber rested among the pillows of the sofa.
Cecil feared that she was right, and he hastily unfastened her heavy fur jacket, and threw it back to place his hand on her heart. As he did so, the hidden letter slipped from its concealment and fell to the floor. He noticed it, but went on with his investigation, feeling anxiously for the pulsations of Amber’s heart.
“Does it beat?” asked the woman of the house, anxiously.
“Very faintly, I think. This may be only a deep swoon. Will you bring some water and bathe her head, please?”
The frightened woman obeyed, and then Cecil said, courteously:
“I will go for a doctor if you will direct me to the nearest one.”