he knew not what he did. "Curse you!" he cried, as
he held the fagot upraised and rushed upon Dorothy. John, with his arms
full of fagots, could not avert the blow which certainly would have killed
the girl, but he could take it. He sprang between Dorothy and her father,
the fagot fell upon his head, and he sank to the floor. In his fall John's
wig dropped off, and when the blood began to flow from the wound Dorothy
kneeled beside his prostrate form. She snatched the great bush of false
beard from his face and fell to kissing his lips and his hands in a
paroxysm of passionate love and grief. Her kisses she knew to be a panacea
for all ills John could be heir to, and she thought they would heal even
the wound her father had given, and stop the frightful outpouring of
John's life-blood. The poor girl, oblivious of all save her wounded
lover, murmured piteously:--

"John, John, speak to me; 'tis Dorothy." She placed her lips near his ear
and whispered: "'Tis Dorothy, John. Speak to her." But she received no
response. Then came a wild light to her eyes and she cried aloud: "John,
'tis Dorothy. Open your eyes. Speak to me, John! oh, for God's sake speak
to me! Give some little sign that you live," but John was silent. "My God,
my God! Help, help! Will no one help me save this man? See you not that
his life is flowing away? This agony will kill me. John, my lover, my
lord, speak to me. Ah, his heart, his heart! I will know." She tore from
his breast the leathern doublet and placed her ear over his heart. "Thank
God, it beats!" she cried in a frenzied whisper, as she kissed his breast
and turned her ear again to hear his heart's welcome throbbing. Then she
tried to lift him in her arms and succeeded in placing his head in her
lap. It was a piteous scene. God save me from witnessing another like it.

After Dorothy lifted John's head to her lap he began to breathe
perceptibly, and the girl's agitation passed away as she gently stroked
his hair and kissed him over and over again, softly whispering her love to
his unresponsive ear in a gentle frenzy of ineffable tenderness such as
was never before seen in this world, I do believe. I wish with all my
heart that I were a maker of pictures so that I might draw for you the
scene which is as clear and vivid in every detail to my eyes now as it was
upon that awful day in Haddon Hall. There lay John upon the floor and by
his side knelt Dorothy. His head was resting in her lap. Over them s