The drain, though deep, was not very wide, and if, even at the very moment of the fall, Clarkson had been capable of exerting himself, he might have escaped; as it was, he lay among the broken fragments of his sleigh and shouted out imprecations upon his horse, which had been dragged down on the top of him.  But when the poor animal was freed from the harness, and with as much care as possible removed from the body of its master, a much harder task remained.  Clarkson was frightfully hurt—­how, they could hardly tell, but it seemed as if his head and arms were all that had escaped.  The rest of his body appeared to be dead; he had not the smallest power to move, and yet there was no outward wound, and his voice was as strong as ever.  They raised him with the greatest gentleness and care, and bringing up the bottom of the broken sleigh, laid his helpless limbs on it compassionately, and carried him back to the tavern, paying no heed to the flood of curses which he constantly poured out.

When they reached the tavern, they found the doctor already there, and, going out of the house, they waited till he should have made his examination and be able to tell them its result.  After some time he came, closing the door behind him and looking very grave.

“What’s wrong with him, sir?” one of the men asked.

“Everything.  He cannot live many hours.”

There was a minute’s silence, and then somebody said,

“Should not his missus be fetched?”

“Yes, poor woman, the sooner the better.  Who will go?”

“I will, sir,” and one of the oldest of the group started off immediately to the mill to get the necessary permission from his master.

“Now,” said the doctor, “there’s another thing.  Who will take my horse and go into Cacouna and fetch Mr. Bayne out here?  I do not mean to leave Clarkson myself at present.”

Another volunteer was found, and the doctor, having scribbled a pencil note to Mr. Bayne, sent him off with it and went back into the house.  There was already a change in his patient.  An indefinable look had come over the hard, sunburnt face, and the voice was weaker.  Why the doctor had sent for Mr. Bayne, whom for the moment he regarded not as a clergyman, but as a magistrate, he himself best knew.  Clarkson had no idea of his having done so; nor had he yet heard plainly that his own fate was so certain or so near.  But it was no part of the doctor’s plan to leave him in ignorance.  He went to the side of the settee where the dying man lay, and sitting down said,

“I have sent for your wife.”

Clarkson looked at him suspiciously.

“What’s that for?” he asked.  “Can’t they take me home?  I should get well a deal sooner there than in this place.”

“You cannot be moved.  In fact, Clarkson, there is no chance of your getting well anywhere.”

Clarkson turned his head sharply.

“Say out what you mean,” he cried with an oath.