formed the same good office to another wounded man of his party, who
had been left on the field. I then with difficulty made Jobson understand
that he must enter the coach also, and support Sir Rashleigh upon the
seat. He obeyed, but with an air as if he but half comprehended my
meaning. Andrew and I turned the horses' heads round, and opening the
gate of the avenue, led them slowly back to Osbaldistone Hall.

Some fugitives had already reached the Hall by circuitous routes, and
alarmed its garrison by the news that Sir Rashleigh, Clerk Jobson, and
all their escort, save they who escaped to tell the tale, had been cut to
pieces at the head of the avenue by a whole regiment of wild Highlanders.
When we reached the mansion, therefore, we heard such a buzz as arises
when bees are alarmed, and mustering in their hives. Mr. Jobson, however,
who had now in some measure come to his senses, found voice enough to
make himself known. He was the more anxious to be released from the
carriage, as one of his companions (the peace-officer) had, to his
inexpressible terror, expired by his side with a hideous groan.

Sir Rashleigh Osbaldistone was still alive, but so dreadfully wounded
that the bottom of the coach was filled with his blood, and long traces
of it left from the entrance-door into the stone-hall, where he was
placed in a chair, some attempting to stop the bleeding with cloths,
while others called for a surgeon, and no one seemed willing to go to
fetch one. "Torment me not," said the wounded man--"I know no assistance
can avail me--I am a dying man." He raised himself in his chair, though
the damps and chill of death were already on his brow, and spoke with a
firmness which seemed beyond his strength. "Cousin Francis," he said,
"draw near to me." I approached him as he requested.--"I wish you only to
know that the pangs of death do not alter I one iota of my feelings
towards you. I hate you!" he said, the expression of rage throwing a
hideous glare into the eyes which were soon to be closed for ever--"I
hate you with a hatred as intense, now while I lie bleeding and dying
before you, as if my foot trode on your neck."

"I have given you no cause, sir," I replied,--"and for your own sake I
could wish your mind in a better temper."

"You _have_ given me cause," he rejoined. "In love, in ambition, in the
paths of interest, you have crossed and blighted me at every turn. I was
born to be the honour of my father's house--I hav