[CHAPTER XIII.]
When Queenie threw herself down upon the wet grass in a weariness so utter that she could no longer hold her aching limbs upright, she had thought that a minute of rest would put new strength into her exhausted frame, and enable her to pursue her journey.
But exhausted nature could bear no more. Her unbroken fast of nearly three days, and her wet and draggled condition combined to weaken and depress her. Her limbs trembled under her, and when she fell down for one minute's rest, a deep unconsciousness stole upon her, wrapping her senses in lethargy. Her last conscious thought was one of agonized terror, lest ere she revived her enemy should discover her escape, and set out to trace her.
While she lay there mute and still, the dawn began to grow brighter in the east, the rain slackened, and a few pale beams of sunshine striking upon the scene, showed that she had fallen almost at the gate of a little farm-house from whose chimneys the blue smoke curled cheerfully up, showing that the inhabitants were already up and about their daily labors.
Presently a middle-aged man, in the rough, coarse garb of a farmer came out of the house and strode down to the gate, whistling a merry tune, and snapping and cracking the great leathern whip he carried in his hand.
As he stepped outside the gate his cheerful whistle suddenly ended in an exclamation of terror.
His glance had fallen on the still form lying just outside the gate, with its lovely, white face and closed eyes upturned to the light.
He stood still a moment, looking down at her in awe and consternation.
"What a pretty young un," he said, aloud, "And she's dead, I mistrust—stone dead!"
The next moment he leaned over the gate and called loudly: