She looked at it with heavy eyes. (Where was he now—­where was he now?—­This repeating itself in the far chambers of her brain.) Her sight seemed dimmed, not only by the mist, but by a sinking faintness which possessed her.  She did not remember how little food she had eaten during more than twenty-four hours.  Her habit was heavy with moisture, and clung to her body; she was conscious of a hot tremor passing over her, and saw that her hands shook as they held the bridle on which they had lost their grip.  She had never fainted in her life, and she was not going to faint now—­women did not faint in these days—­but she must reach the cottage and dismount, to rest under shelter for a short time.  No smoke was rising from the chimney, but surely someone was living in the place, and could tell her where she was, and give her at least water for herself and her horse.  Poor beast! how wickedly she must have been riding him, in her utter absorption in her thoughts.  He was wet, not alone with rain, but with sweat.  He snorted out hot, smoking breaths.

She spoke to him, and he moved forward at her command.  He was trembling too.  Not more than two hundred yards, and she turned him into the lane.  But it was wet and slippery, and strewn with stones.  His trembling and her uncertain hold on the bridle combined to produce disaster.  He set his foot upon a stone which slid beneath it, he stumbled, and she could not help him to recover, so he fell, and only by Heaven’s mercy not upon her, with his crushing, big-boned weight, and she was able to drag herself free of him before he began to kick, in his humiliated efforts to rise.  But he could not rise, because he was hurt—­and when she, herself, got up, she staggered, and caught at the broken gate, because in her wrenching leap for safety she had twisted her ankle, and for a moment was in cruel pain.

When she recovered from her shock sufficiently to be able to look at the cottage, she saw that it was more of a ruin than it had seemed, even at a short distance.  Its door hung open on broken hinges, no smoke rose from the chimney, because there was no one within its walls to light a fire.  It was quite empty.  Everything about the place lay in dead and utter silence.  In a normal mood she would have liked the mystery of the situation, and would have set about planning her way out of her difficulty.  But now her mind made no effort, because normal interest in things had fallen away from her.  She might be twenty miles from Stornham, but the possible fact did not, at the moment, seem to concern her. (Where is he now—­where is he now?) Childe Harold was trying to rise, despite his hurt, and his evident determination touched her.  He was too proud to lie in the mire.  She limped to him, and tried to steady him by his bridle.  He was not badly injured, though plainly in pain.

“Poor boy, it was my fault,” she said to him as he at last struggled to his feet.  “I did not know I was doing it.  Poor boy!”