"Father Philip," interposed Dorothy, "you must rest yourself. Master
Manners is a soldier and has seen many hurt like you, and even worse;
you must do his bidding an you would get well again."

"What in the name of faith does all this mean?" asked Margaret, as she
stepped into the room. "What is all this stir and commotion about?"

"I am dying, Margaret," repeated the confessor, as he gasped for very
breath. "I thought to marry thee, my daughter, but now it is denied
me. You will pray for the repose of the soul of Father Philip, will
you not?" he inquired, looking up into her face as she bent over him.

"When you are dead, yes," she replied, "but not until."

"Don't talk to him, Mistress Margaret," said Manners; "he will only
injure himself by talking in return. I have enjoined quietness, but he
will take no heed. He ought to refresh himself by quietness, and sleep
if possible, does he not; is not that correct, Everard?"

"Aye, it is indeed,"

"I shall be dead soon, Margaret, and--"

"Go to sleep, man, or at least lie still," growled a Woode. "What is
the use of all my care and simples if you won't do as I order you?"

"And you will ask the baron to forgive an old man's follies,
Margaret?" slowly pursued the father, between the gasps, quite
heedless of the counsel given him to remain silent.

"I'll stop this," Sir Benedict broke in savagely, as he proceeded to
tie the bandages on afresh. "Father Philip, you shall be silent, or
die you must. That's better," he exclaimed, as his patient fell back
unconscious. "He will, perforce, be quiet now awhile, and we may
safely remove him to his room."

"Is he badly hurt, think you?" asked Margaret.

"I don't think he will ever get better again," Benedict gravely
replied; "he is old, and it is a terrible wound."

"Neither do I think he will weather it," added Crowleigh; "I have seen
men hurt like that before, fair Mistress Margaret, and we soldiers
soon recognise the mark of death."

Slowly and with great care the poor father was carried into the hall,
and as soon as he was laid upon his bed, seeing that there were
no signs of returning consciousness, Margaret and Dorothy quietly
retired.

"Meg," exclaimed the younger sister, with glistening eyes, as they sat
in cheerless solitude before the blazing logs in their own room, "I
have something to tell thee, and I shall mayhap want your aid ere I
have done."

She stopped short, to see if her sister had guessed her secr