And tearing off a green bough, the wretched man rushed into the river, beating wildly right and left at his fancied tormentors.

“What is it?” cry Campbell and Scoutbush, who have run up breathless.

“Delirium tremens.  Campbell, get home as fast as you can, and send me up a bottle of morphine.  Peter, take the hounds home.  I must go after him.”

“I’ll go home with Campbell, and send the bottle up by a man and horse,” cries Scoutbush; and away the two trot at a gallant pace, for a cross-country run home.

“Mr. Tardrew, come with me, there’s a good man!—­I shall want help.”

Tardrew made no reply, but dashed through the river at his heels.

Trebooze had already climbed the plashed fence, and was running wildly across the meadow.  Tom dragged Tardrew up it after him.

“Thank ’ee, sir,” but nothing more.  The two had not met since the cholera.

Trebooze fell, and lay rolling, trying in vain to shield his face from the phantom wasps.

They lifted him up, and spoke gently to him.

“Better get home to Mrs. Trebooze, sir,” said Tardrew, with as much tenderness as his gruff voice could convey.

“Yes, home! home to Molly!  My Molly’s always kind.  She won’t let me be eaten up alive.  Molly, Molly!”

And shrieking for his wife, the wretched man started to run again.

“Molly, I’m in hell!  Only help me! you’re always right! only forgive me! and I’ll never, never again—­”

And then came out hideous confessions; then fresh hideous delusions.

* * * * *

Three weary up-hill miles lay between them and the house:  but home they got at last.

Trebooze dashed at the house-door, tore it open; slammed and bolted it behind him, to shut out the pursuing fiends.

“Quick, round by the back-door!” said Tom, who had not opposed him for fear of making him furious, but dreaded some tragedy if he were left alone.

But his fear was needless.  Trebooze looked into the breakfast-room.  It was empty; she was not out of bed yet.  He rushed upstairs into her bed-room, shrieking her name; she leaped up to meet him; and the poor wretch buried his head in that faithful bosom, screaming to her to save him from he knew not what.

She put her arms round him, soothed him, wept over him sacred tears.  “My William! my own William!  Yes, I will take care of you!  Nothing shall hurt you,—­my own, own!”

Vain, drunken, brutal, unfaithful.  Yes:  but her husband still.

There was a knock at the door.

“Who is that?” she cried, with her usual fierceness, terrified for his character, not terrified for herself.

“Mr. Thurnall, madam.  Have you any laudanum in the house?”

“Yes, here!  Oh, come in!  Thank God you are come!  What is to be done?”

Tom looked for the laudanum bottle, and poured out a heavy dose.