the man
he had felled. "D'ye know what'll be the fruits of this? Ye'll swing
at Tyburn like the dirty thief y' are. God help me! I'd give a hundred
guineas sooner than be mixed in this filthy business."

"'Tis no matter for that now," said the duke, touching him on the
shoulder and drawing him away from his lordship. "Get up, Rotherby."

Heavily, mechanically, Rotherby got to his feet. Now that the fit of
rage was over, he was himself all stricken at the thing he had done. He
looked at the limp figure on the turf, huddled against the knee of Major
Gascoigne; looked at the white face, the closed eyes and the stain of
blood oozing farther and farther across the Holland shirt, and, as white
himself as the stricken man, he shuddered and his mouth was drawn wide
with horror.

But pitiful though he looked, he inspired no pity in the Duke of
Wharton, who considered him with an eye of unspeakable severity. "If Mr.
Caryll dies," said he coldly, "I shall see to it that you hang, my lord.
I'll not rest until I bring you to the gallows."

And then, before more could be said, there came a sound of running
steps and labored breathing, and his grace swore softly to himself as he
beheld no other than Lord Ostermore advancing rapidly, all out of breath
and apoplectic of face, a couple of footmen pressing close upon his
heels, and, behind these, a score of sightseers who had followed them.

"What's here?" cried the earl, without glancing at his son. "Is he dead?
Is he dead?"

Gascoigne, who was busily endeavoring to stanch the bleeding, answered
without looking up: "It is in God's hands. I think he is very like to
die."

Ostermore swung round upon Rotherby. He had paled suddenly, and his
mouth trembled. He raised his clenched hand, and it seemed that he was
about to strike his son; then he let it fall again. "You villain!" he
panted, breathless from running and from rage. "I saw it! I saw it all.
It was murder, and, as God's my life, if Mr. Caryll dies, I shall see to
it that you hang--I, your own father."

Thus assailed on every side, some of the cowering, shrinking manner
left the viscount. His antagonism to his father spurred him to a prouder
carriage. He shrugged indifferently. "So be it," he said. "I have been
told that already. I don't greatly care."

Mainwaring, who had been stooping over Mr. Caryll, and who had perhaps
more knowledge of wounds than any present, shook his head ominously.

"'Twould be dangerous to move