A swirling blackness came over Walden’s eyes for a moment.  He tried to realise what was being said, but could not grasp its meaning.  Making a strong effort to control his nerves he spoke, slowly and with difficulty.

“Gone?  I don’t understand you,—­I—–­”

Here, as he stood at the open doorway, he saw in the gathering dusk of evening a small crowd of villagers moving slowly along the road.  Some burden was being carried tenderly between them,—­it was like a walking funeral.  Someone was dead then?  He puzzled himself as to who it could be?  He was the parson of the parish,—­he had received no intimation!  And the hour was late,—­they must put it off till to-morrow!  Yes—­till to-morrow, when he would see Maryllia!  Startled by the sudden ghastly pallor of his master’s face, Bainton ventured to lay a hand on his arm.

“She was found two hours ago,”—­he said, in hushed tones—­“Up on Farmer Thorpe’s ploughed field—­all crushed on the clods, an’ no one nigh ’er ‘cept the mare.  An’ the mare was as sensible as a ’uman, for she was a-whinnyin’ loud like cryin’ for ‘elp—­an’ Dr. Forsyth ‘e came by in his gig, drivin’ ‘ome from Riversford an’ he ’ad his man with ’im, so ’tween them both, they got some ‘elp an’ brought ’er ’ome—­but I’m feared it’s too late!—­I’m awesome feared it’s too late!”

Walden looked straight down the road, watching the oncoming of the little crowd.

“I think I begin to know what you mean,” he said, slowly.  “There has been an accident to Miss Vancourt.  She has been thrown—­but she is not dead!  Not dead.  Of course not!  She could not be!”

As he spoke, he pushed aside Bainton’s appealing hand gently yet firmly and walked out bareheaded like a man in a dream to meet the little ghost-like procession that was now approaching him nearly.  He felt himself trembling violently,—­had he been called upon to meet his own instant destruction at that moment, he would have been far less unnerved.  Low on the wet autumnal wind came the sound of men’s murmuring voices, of women’s suppressed sobbing;—­in the semi-obscurity of fading light and deepening shadow he could discern and recognise the figure of his friend the local doctor, ‘Jimmy’ Forsyth, who was walking close beside a hastily improvised stretcher composed of the boughs of trees and covered with men’s coats and driving-rugs,—­and he could see the shadowy shape of ’Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt,’ being led slowly on in the rear, her proud head drooping dejectedly, her easy stride changed to a melancholy limping movement,—­her saddle empty.  And, as he looked, some nerve seemed to tighten across his brows,—­a burning ache and strain, as if a strong cord stretched to a tension of acutest agony tortured his brain,—­ and for a moment he lost all other consciousness but the awful sense of death,—­death in the air,—­death in the cold rain—­death in the falling leaves—­death in the deepening gloom of the night,—­and death, palpable, fierce and cruel in the solemn gliding