After Dorothy lifted John’s head to her lap he began to breathe perceptibly, and the girl’s agitation passed away as she gently stroked his hair and kissed him over and over again, softly whispering her love to his unresponsive ear in a gentle frenzy of ineffable tenderness such as was never before seen in this world, I do believe.  I wish with all my heart that I were a maker of pictures so that I might draw for you the scene which is as clear and vivid in every detail to my eyes now as it was upon that awful day in Haddon Hall.  There lay John upon the floor and by his side knelt Dorothy.  His head was resting in her lap.  Over them stood Sir George with the murderous fagot raised, as if he intended again to strike.  I had sprung to his side and was standing by him, intending to fell him to the floor should he attempt to repeat the blow upon either Dorothy or John.  Across from Sir George and me, that is, upon the opposite side of Dorothy and John, stood Lady Crawford and Madge, who clung to each other in terror.  The silence was heavy, save when broken by Dorothy’s sobs and whispered ejaculations to John.  Sir George’s terrible deed had deprived all of us, including himself, of the power to speak.  I feared to move from his side lest he should strike again.  After a long agony of silence he angrily threw the fagot away from him and asked:—­

“Who is this fellow?  Can any one tell me?”

Only Madge, Dorothy, and I could have given him true answer.  By some strange power of divination Madge had learned all that had happened, and she knew as well as I the name of the man who lay upon the floor battling with death.  Neither Madge nor I answered.

“Who is this fellow?” again demanded Sir George.

Dorothy lifted her face toward her father.

“He is the man whom you seek, father,” she answered, in a low, tearful voice.  “He is my lover; he is my life; he is my soul, and if you have murdered him in your attempt to kill your own child, all England shall hear of it and you shall hang.  He is worth more in the eyes of the queen than we and all our kindred.  You know not whom you have killed.”

Sir George’s act had sobered him.

“I did not intend to kill him—­in that manner,” said Sir George, dropping his words absent-mindedly.  “I hoped to hang him.  Where is Dawson?  Some one fetch Dawson.”

Several of the servants had gathered about the open door in the next room, and in obedience to Sir George’s command one of them went to seek the forester.  I feared that John would die from the effects of the blow; but I also knew from experience that a man’s head may receive very hard knocks and life still remain.  Should John recover and should Sir George learn his name, I was sure that my violent cousin would again attempt the personal administration of justice and would hang him, under the old Saxon law.  In that event Parliament would not be so easily pacified as upon the occasion of the former hanging at Haddon;