“Help!  Help!  Help!” Growing fainter and sharper the cry at last was lost in the phantom desert.

They stood at the window and watched the fog lift, gray and forbidding, until the trees and road were discernible.  Then, arm in arm, they set forth across the wet way toward Shaw’s cottage.  The mists cleared as they walked along, the sun peeped through the hills as if afraid to look upon the devastation of the night; all the world seemed at peace once more.

“Poor Cecil!” she sighed.  “It was cruel of you.”  In the roadway they found a hat which she at once identified as the count’s.  Farther on there was a carriage lamp, and later a mackintosh which had been cast aside as an impediment.  “Oh, it was cruel!” She smiled, however, in retrospection.

An hour later they stood together on the broad porch, looking out over the green, glistening hills.  The warm fresh air filled their lungs and happiness was overcrowding their hearts.  In every direction were signs of the storm’s fury.  Great trees lay blasted, limbs and branches were scattered over the ground, wide fissures split the roadway across which the deluge had rushed on its way down the slope.

But Penelope was warm and dry and safe after her thrilling night.  A hot breakfast was being prepared for them; trouble seemed to have gone its way with the elements.

“If I were only sure that nothing serious had happened to Cecil,” she murmured anxiously.

“I’m sorry, dear, for that screech of mine,” he apologized.

Suddenly he started and gazed intently in the direction of the haunted house.  A man—­a sorry figure—­was slowly, painfully approaching from the edge of the wood scarce a hundred yards away.  In his hand he carried a stick to which was attached a white cloth—­doubtless a handkerchief.  He was hatless and limped perceptibly.  The two on the porch watched his approach in amazed silence.

“It’s Cecil!” whispered Penelope in horror-struck tones.  “Good heaven, Randolph, go to him!  He is hurt.”

It was Lord Bazelhurst.  As Shaw hurried down the drive to meet him, no thought of the feud in mind, two beings even more hopelessly dilapidated ventured from the wood and hobbled up behind the truce-bearer, who had now paused to lift his shoulders into a position of dignity and defiance.  Shaw’s heart was touched.  The spectacle was enough to melt the prejudice of any adversary.  Lord Cecil’s knees trembled; his hand shook as if in a chill.  Mud-covered, water-soaked, and bruised, their clothes rent in many places, their hats gone and their hair matted, their legs wobbly, the trio certainly inspired pity, not mirth nor scorn.

“One moment, sir,” called his lordship, with a feeble attempt at severity.  His voice was hoarse and shaky.  “We do not come as friends, dem you.  Is my sister here?”