“He does not seem so badly hurt.  I cannot make it out at all.  At first I thought he was badly frightened, but I cannot bring him to consciousness.  Perhaps he has a fever, as you say.  This is a most unpleasant experience, Mr. Short—­your first night at the Hall, too.  Of course I am bound to look after the man, as Stamboul did the damage—­it would have served him right if he had been killed.  It was a villainous blow he gave me—­I can feel it still.  The moral of it is that one should always wear a thick ulster when one walks alone at night.”

“I did not know he struck you,” said John in some surprise.

“Jumped out of the copse at the turning and struck at me with a bludgeon,” said Mr. Juxon.  “Knocked my hat off, into the bargain, and then ran away with Stamboul after him.  If I had not come up in time there would have been nothing left of him.”

“I should say the dog saved your life,” remarked John, much impressed by the squire’s unadorned tale.  “What object can the fellow have had in attacking you?  Strange—­his eyes are open, but he does not seem to understand us.”

Mr. Juxon walked to the bedside and contemplated the sick man’s features with undisguised disgust.

“You villain!” he said roughly.  “Why don’t you answer for yourself?” The man did not move, and the squire began to pace the room.  John was struck by Mr. Juxon’s tone:  it was not like him, he thought, to speak in that way to a helpless creature.  He could not understand it.  There was a long silence, broken only by the heavy breathing of Goddard.

“Really, Mr. Short,” said the squire at last, “I have no intention of keeping you up all night.  The village doctor must have been out.  It may be more than an hour before my man finds another.”

“Never mind,” said John quietly.  “I will wait till he comes at all events.  You may need me before it is over.”

“Do you think he looks as if he were going to die?” asked the squire doubtfully, as he again approached the bedside.

“I don’t know,” answered John, standing on the other side.  “I never saw any one die.  He looks very ill.”

“Very ill.  I have seen many people die—­but somehow I have a strong impression that this fellow will live.”

“Let us hope so,” said John.

“Well—­” The squire checked himself.  Probably the hope he would have expressed would not have coincided with that to which John had given utterance.  “Well,” he repeated, “I daresay he will.  Mr. Short, are you at all nervous?  Since you are so good as to say you will wait until the doctor comes, would you mind very much being left alone here for five minutes?”

“No,” answered John, stoutly, “not in the least.”  To be left in a well-lighted room by the bedside of Walter Goddard, ill indeed, but alive and breathing vigorously, was very different from being requested to watch his apparently dead body out in the park under the moonlight.