“Y—­e—­s, Sir Rowland,” stammered Charcam.

“The devil!” ejaculated Jonathan.  “Here’s a cross-bite.”

“But that’s not all, your honour,” continued Charcam; “Mrs. Norris says she’s dying.”

“Dying!” echoed the knight.

“Dying, Sir Rowland.  She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—­worse than ever she was before.  And Mrs. Norris was so frightened that she ordered the postboys to drive back as fast as they could.  She never expected to get her ladyship home alive.”

“My God!” cried Trenchard, stunned by the intelligence, “I have killed her.”

“No doubt,” rejoined Wild, with a sneer; “but don’t let all the world know it.”

“They’re lifting her out of the carriage,” interposed Charcam; “will it please your honour to send for some advice and the chaplain?”

“Fly for both,” returned Sir Rowland, in a tone of bitter anguish.

“Stay!” interposed Jonathan.  “Where are the boys?”

“In the hall.”

“Her ladyship will pass through it?”

“Of course; there’s no other way.”

“Then, bring them into this room, the first thing—­quick!  They must not meet, Sir Rowland,” he added, as Charcam hastened to obey his instructions.

“Heaven has decreed it otherwise,” replied the knight, dejectedly.  “I yield to fate.”

“Yield to nothing,” returned Wild, trying to re-assure him; “above all, when your designs prosper.  Man’s fate is in his own hands.  You are your nephew’s executioner, or he is yours.  Cast off this weakness.  The next hour makes, or mars you for ever.  Go to your sister, and do not quit her till all is over.  Leave the rest to me.”

Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle.  This was his sister, evidently in the last extremity.  Borne in the arms of a couple of assistants, and preceded by Mrs. Norris, wringing her hands and wepping, the unfortunate lady was placed upon a couch.  At the same time, Charcam, who seemed perfectly distracted by the recent occurrences, dragged in Thames, leaving Jack Sheppard outside in the custody of the dwarfish Jew.

“Hell’s curses!” muttered Jonathan between his teeth; “that fool will ruin all.  Take him away,” he added, striding up to Charcam.

“Let him remain,” interposed Trenchard.

“As you please, Sir Rowland,” returned Jonathan, with affected indifference; “but I’m not going to hunt the deer for another to eat the ven’son, depend on ’t.”

But seeing that no notice was taken of the retort, he drew a little aside, and folded his arms, muttering, “This whim will soon be over.  She can’t last long.  I can pull the strings of this stiff-necked puppet as I please.”

Sir Rowland, meantime, throw himself on his knees beside his sister, and, clasping her chilly fingers within his own, besought her forgiveness in the most passionate terms.  For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence.  But, after some restoratives had been administered by Mrs. Norris, she revived a little.