had gone on to her death.  She had filled her little niche in the universe and had died at her post Dorothy plunged forward over the mare’s head, and a cry of alarm came from my lips despite me.  I was sure the girl had been killed.  She, however, instantly sprang to her feet.  Her hair was flying behind her and she ran toward the gate crying:  “John, John, fly for your life!” And then she fell prone upon the ground and did not rise.

We had all seen the mare fall, and had seen the girl run forward toward the gates and fall before reaching them.  Cecil and Sir William rode to the spot where Dorothy lay, and dismounted.

In a moment Sir William called to Sir George:—­

“The lady is your daughter, Mistress Dorothy.”

“What in hell’s name brings her here?” cried Sir George, hurriedly riding forward, “and how came she?”

I followed speedily, and the piteous sight filled my eyes with tears.  I cannot describe it adequately to you, though I shall see it vividly to the end of my days.  Dorothy had received a slight wound upon the temple, and blood was trickling down her face upon her neck and ruff.  Her hair had fallen from its fastenings.  She had lost her hat, and her gown was torn in shreds and covered with mud.  I lifted the half-conscious girl to her feet and supported her; then with my kerchief I bound up the wound upon her temple.

“Poor Dolcy,” she said, almost incoherently, “I have killed her and I have failed—­I have failed.  Now I am ready to die.  Would that I had died with Dolcy.  Let me lie down here, Malcolm,—­let me lie down.”

I still held her in my arms and supported her half-fainting form.

“Why are you here?” demanded Sir George.

“To die,” responded Dorothy.

“To die?  Damned nonsense!” returned her father.

“How came you here, you fool?”

“On Dolcy.  She is dead,” returned Dorothy.

“Were you not at Haddon when we left there?” asked her father.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Did you pass us on the road?” he asked.

“How came you here?” Sir George insisted.

“Oh, I flew hither.  I am a witch.  Don’t question me, father.  I am in no temper to listen to you.  I warn you once and for all, keep away from me; beware of me.  I have a dagger in my bosom.  Go and do the work you came to do; but remember this, father, if harm comes to him I will take my own life, and my blood shall be upon your soul.”

“My God, Malcolm, what does she mean?” asked Sir George, touched with fear by the strength of his daughter’s threat.  “Has she lost her wits?”

“No,” the girl quickly responded, “I have only just found them.”

Sir George continued to question Dorothy, but he received no further response from her.  She simply held up the palm of her hand warningly toward him, and the gesture was as eloquent as an oration.  She leaned against me, and covered her face with her hands, while her form shook and trembled as if with a palsy.