"Lame with fatigue; nothing else," answered Rupert in that low, half-inaudible voice which a very depressed physical state will induce. "Let me come in and sit down half-an-hour, George, or I shall never get to the Hold."
"How came you to let Cris Chattaway ride my horse home? I left it for you."
"Let him! He mounted and galloped off without my knowing—the sneak! I should be ashamed to be guilty of such a trick. I declare I had half a mind to ride his horse home, lame as it was. But that the poor animal is evidently in pain, I would have done so."
"You are very late."
"I have been such a time coming. The truth is, I sat down when I was half-way here, so dead tired I couldn't stir a step further; and I dropped asleep."
"A wise proceeding!" cried George, in pleasant though mocking tones. He did not care to say more plainly how unwise it might be for Rupert Trevlyn. "Did you sleep long?"
"Pretty well. The stars were out when I awoke; and I felt ten times more tired when I got up than I had felt when I sat down."
George placed him in a comfortable armchair, and got him a glass of wine, Nora brought some refreshment, but Rupert could not eat.
"Try it," urged George.
"I can't," said Rupert; "I am completely done up."