“The tramp?” repeated Mrs. Goddard with a faint cry of horror.

“Yes,” said John, whose spirits rose wonderfully in the light of the dog-cart lamps.  “There was a poor tramp hanging about the park—­poaching, very likely—­and Mr. Juxon’s dog got after him, somehow, I suppose.  I do not know how it happened, but when I came up—­oh! here is Mr. Juxon himself—­he will tell you all about it.”

The squire came up in breathless haste, having locked Stamboul into the house.

“Good Heavens!  Mrs. Goddard!” he ejaculated in a tone of profound surprise.  But Mrs. Goddard gave no answer.  The squire sprang upon the step and looked closely at her.  She lay back against old Reynolds’s shoulder, very pale, with her eyes shut.  It was evident that she had fainted.  The old man seemed not to comprehend what had happened; he had never experienced the sensation of having a lady leaning upon his shoulder, and he looked down at her with a half idiotic smile on his deeply furrowed face.

“She’s took wuss, sir,” he remarked.  “She was all for comin’ up the park as soon as Master John was gone.  She warn’t feelin’ herself o’ no account t’ evenin’.”

“Look here, Mr. Short,” said the squire decisively.  “I must ask you to take Mrs. Goddard home again and call her women to look after her.  I fancy she will come to herself before long.  Do you mind?”

“Not in the least,” said John cheerfully, mounting at the back of the dog-cart.

“And—­Reynolds—­bring Mr. Short back to the Hall immediately, please, and you shall have some beer.”

“All right, sir.”

John supported the fainting lady with one arm, turning round upon his seat at the back.  Old Strawberry wheeled quickly in her tracks and trotted down the avenue under the evident impression that she was going home.  Mr. Juxon dashed across the ditch again to the place where Walter Goddard had fallen.

The squire knelt down and tried to ascertain the extent of the man’s injuries; as far as he could see there was a bad wound at his throat, and one hand was much mangled.  But there seemed to have been no great flow of blood.  He tore open the smock-frock and shirt and put his ear to the heart.  Faintly, very faintly, he could hear it beat.  Walter Goddard was alive still—­alive to live for years perhaps, the squire reflected; to live in a prison, it was true, but to live.  To describe his feelings in that moment would be impossible.  Had he found the convict dead, it would be useless to deny that he would have felt a very great satisfaction, tempered perhaps by some pity for the wretched man’s miserable end, but still very great.  It would have seemed such a just end, after all; to be killed in the attempt to kill, and to have died not by the squire’s hand but by the sharp strong jaws of the hound who had once before saved the squire’s life.  But he was alive.  It would not take much to kill him; a little pressure on his wounded throat would