disappear on the dark ground.

'You've done it! off with you!' And the rascals rushed off up the
ride.

In a moment Tregarva was by the old man's side, and lifted him
tenderly up.

'They've done for me, Paul. Old Harry's got his gruel. He's heard
his last shot fired. I knowed it 'ud come to this, and I said it.
Eh? Didn't I, now, Paul?' And as the old man spoke, the workings
of his lungs pumped great jets of blood out over the still heather-
flowers as they slept in the moonshine, and dabbled them with
smoking gore.

'Here, men,' shouted the colonel, 'up with him at once, and home!
Here, put a brace of your guns together, muzzle and lock. Help him
to sit on them, Lancelot. There, Harry, put your arms round their
necks. Tregarva, hold him up behind. Now then, men, left legs
foremost--keep step--march!' And they moved off towards the Priory.

'You seem to know everything, colonel,' said Lancelot.

The colonel did not answer for a moment.

'Lancelot, I learnt this dodge from the only friend I ever had in
the world, or ever shall have; and a week after I marched him home
to his deathbed in this very way.'

'Paul--Paul Tregarva,' whispered old Harry, 'put your head down
here: wipe my mouth, there's a man; it's wet, uncommon wet.' It
was his own life-blood. 'I've been a beast to you, Paul. I've
hated you, and envied you, and tried to ruin you. And now you've
saved my life once this night; and here you be a-nursing of me as my
own son might do, if he was here, poor fellow! I've ruined you,
Paul; the Lord forgive me!'

'Pray! pray!' said Paul, 'and He will forgive you. He is all mercy.
He pardoned the thief on the cross--'

'No, Paul, no thief,--not so bad as that, I hope, anyhow; never
touched a feather of the squire's. But you dropped a song, Paul, a
bit of writing.'

Paul turned pale.

'And--the Lord forgive me!--I put it in the squire's fly-book.'

'The Lord forgive you! Amen!' said Paul, solemnly.

Wearily and slowly they stepped on towards the old man's cottage. A
messenger had gone on before, and in a few minutes the squire, Mrs.
Lavington, and the girls, were round the bed of their old retainer.

They sent off right and left for the doctor and the vicar; the
squire was in a frenzy of rage and grief.

'Don't take on, master, don't take on,' said old Harry, as he lay;
while the colonel and Honoria in vain endeavoured to stanch the
wound. 'I knowed i