He was afraid to ring—­afraid to summon any one to Caterina’s assistance.  What might she not say when she awoke from this fainting fit?  She might be raving.  He could not leave her, and yet he felt as if he were guilty for not following Sir Christopher to see what was the truth.  It took but a moment to think and feel all this, but that moment seemed such a long agony to him that he began to reproach himself for letting it pass without seeking some means of reviving Caterina.  Happily the decanter of water on Sir Christopher’s table was untouched.  He would at least try the effect of throwing that water over her.  She might revive without his needing to call any one else.  Meanwhile Sir Christopher was hurrying at his utmost speed towards the Rookery; his face, so lately bright and confident, now agitated by a vague dread.  The deep alarmed bark of Rupert, who ran by his side, had struck the ear of Mr. Bates, then on his way homeward, as something unwonted, and, hastening in the direction of the sound, he met the Baronet just as he was approaching the entrance of the Rookery.  Sir Christopher’s look was enough.  Mr. Bates said nothing, but hurried along by his side, while Rupert dashed forward among the dead leaves with his nose to the ground.  They had scarcely lost sight of him a minute when a change in the tone of his bark told them that he had found something, and in another instant he was leaping back over one of the large planted mounds.  They turned aside to ascend the mound, Rupert leading them; the tumultuous cawing of the rooks, the very rustling of the leaves, as their feet plunged among them, falling like an evil omen on the Baronet’s ear.

They had reached the summit of the mound, and had begun to descend.  Sir Christopher saw something purple down on the path below among the yellow leaves.  Rupert was already beside it, but Sir Christopher could not move faster.  A tremor had taken hold of the firm limbs.  Rupert came back and licked the trembling hand, as if to say ‘Courage!’ and then was down again snuffing the body.  Yes, it was a body ...  Anthony’s body.  There was the white hand with its diamond-ring clutching the dark leaves.  His eyes were half open, but did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself directly on them from between the boughs.

Still he might only have fainted; it might only be a fit.  Sir Christopher knelt down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid his hand on the heart.  It might be syncope; it might not—­it could not be death.  No! that thought must be kept far off.

’Go, Bates, get help; we’ll carry him to your cottage.  Send some one to the house to tell Mr. Gilfil and Warren.  Bid them send off for Doctor Hart, and break it to my lady and Miss Assher that Anthony is ill.’

Mr. Bates hastened away, and the Baronet was left alone kneeling beside the body.  The young and supple limbs, the rounded cheeks, the delicate ripe lips, the smooth white hands, were lying cold and rigid; and the aged face was bending over them in silent anguish; the aged deep-veined hands were seeking with tremulous inquiring touches for some symptom that life was not irrevocably gone.