Whatever effects of his recent indulgence remained with him before he entered the room, they were quickly dispelled as he beheld the pallid countenance of his friend, and falling down upon his knees, he scrutinised the injuries the venerable father had received.

A brief examination satisfied Benedict that, unskilled as he was, the case was entirely beyond his power, and he knew not what to do.  He unloosened the bandages which Manners had made, and let the already over-bled man bleed still more; and then, bethinking himself of summoning superior aid, he hastily concocted a dose of simples, which the sufferer could with difficulty be prevailed upon to take, despatched a mounted messenger to Derby, and sat himself down at the foot of the bench to await the course of events.

The effect produced by the dose was evidently what Benedict had wished, and for a long time the sufferer was far more quiet.

“O, Benedict,” he feebly exclaimed, “my head, my head!”

“Well, it will be better soon.”

“Nay, I know I’m dying; ’twas a fatal fall, and I cannot shrive myself.”

Benedict saw that his patient was getting excited, and he mixed another draught, which the father absolutely refused to take.

“Oh, dear, I’m dying, dying,” he gasped.

“Tut, man! rubbish.  There’s life enough left yet in you.  We shall be out together again in a day or two.”

“Send for another brother,” pursued the unfortunate man.  “I am dying; my end has come, and I know it.”

“Tut, man!” returned the knight, “I tell you you will be better soon.”

“A witch told me I should die like this,” continued the father obstinately, “and the time has come.  I am too old to survive it now.”

“Go to sleep, father,” interrupted Manners, “you ought not to talk now; you want rest.”

“Yes, sleep,” assented a Woode.

“I cannot, I am dying,” he gasped; and he groaned in agony again and again.

“Father Philip,” interposed Dorothy, “you must rest yourself.  Master Manners is a soldier and has seen many hurt like you, and even worse; you must do his bidding an you would get well again.”

“What in the name of faith does all this mean?” asked Margaret, as she stepped into the room.  “What is all this stir and commotion about?”

“I am dying, Margaret,” repeated the confessor, as he gasped for very breath.  “I thought to marry thee, my daughter, but now it is denied me.  You will pray for the repose of the soul of Father Philip, will you not?” he inquired, looking up into her face as she bent over him.

“When you are dead, yes,” she replied, “but not until.”

“Don’t talk to him, Mistress Margaret,” said Manners; “he will only injure himself by talking in return.  I have enjoined quietness, but he will take no heed.  He ought to refresh himself by quietness, and sleep if possible, does he not; is not that correct, Everard?”