“Who is with him?”

“Me mos’ times an’ young Mark.  I jes’ come down to speak ‘long o’ you, Marse Fabe, w’en I see de carriage dribe up.”

“Well, go back to your master.  I will speak to my niece, and then come in,” said Mr. Fabian, as he hurried out to the carriage.  All his interview with the housekeeper had not occupied two minutes, but Cora was pale with suspense and anxiety.

“How is he?” she panted.

“Unconscious, my poor girl.  Oh, Cora! come in!”

“No, no; I must not.  Not until he permits me.  I will stop at the ferryman’s cottage.  Oh, if he should recover consciousness—­oh, Uncle Fabian, ask him to let me come to him, and send me word.”

“Yes, yes; I will do it.  I must go to him now.  Charles,” he said, turning to the coachman, “drive Mrs. Rothsay down to the ferry house, and then take the carriage to the stables.”

And then, with a grave nod to Corona, Mr. Fabian re-entered the house.  The coachman drove the carriage down to the ferryman’s cottage and drew up.  The door was open and the cottage was empty.

“Boat on t’other side, ma’am,” said Charles.

“For the doctor, I suppose—­and hope,” said Corona, looking across the river, and seeing a gig with two men coming on to the ferryboat.

She watched from the door of the ferryman’s cottage while Charles drove off the empty carriage toward the stables and the two ferrymen poled their boat across the river.  She retreated within the house before the boat touched the land, for she knew that the doctor, if he should see her there, would wonder why she was not at her grandfather’s bedside, and perhaps—­as he was an old friend—­he might ask questions which she would find it embarrassing to answer.  The boat touched the shore; the gig, containing the doctor and Mr. Clarence, rolled off the boat on along the drive leading to the house.

Meanwhile Mr. Fabian had re-entered the hall and hurried up to his father’s room.  He found the Iron King in bed, lying on his right side and breathing heavily.  His eyes were half closed.

“Father,” said the son, in a low voice, taking his hand and bending over him.

There was no response.

“It ain’t no use, Marster Fabe.  Yer can’t rouse him, do wot yer will.  Better wait till de doctor come, young marse.  I done been tried all I knowed how, but it wa’n’t no use,” said Martha, who stood on the other side of the bed watching her insensible master.

“Tell me when this happened.  Come away to the upper end of the room and tell me about it.”

“Might’s well tell yer right here, marse.  ’Twon’t sturve him.  Lor! thunder wouldn’t sturve him, the way he is in.”

“Then tell me, how was it?  When was he stricken?”

“We don’t know, marse.  He was found jes’ dis way by John dis mornin’—­not jes zackly dis way, howaseber, case he was a-layin’ on his lef side, w’ich was berry bad; so me an’ John turn him ober jes so like he is a-layin’ now.  Den we sent right off for you, marse, to ketch yer at home ’fore yer went to de works.”