oads--or tracks--on the edge of the moor. They came to a place where
the track went suddenly into a wood, and a pheasant was startled by the
horses, and flew right across Sir Arthur, almost in his face. The
horse--it was always said no one but Sir Arthur Falloden could ride
it--took fright, bolted, dashed in among the trees, threw Sir Arthur,
and made off. When Douglas came up he found his father on the ground,
covered with blood, and insensible. There was no one anywhere near. The
boy shouted--no one came. It was getting dark and pouring with rain--an
awful January night--I remember it well! Douglas tried to lift his
father on his own horse, but the horse got restive, and it couldn't be
done. If he had ridden back to a farm about a mile away he could have
got help. But he thought his father was dying, and he couldn't make up
his mind, you see, to leave him. Then--imagine!--he somehow was able--of
course he was even then a splendid young fellow, immensely tall and
strong for his age--to get Sir Arthur on his back, and to carry him
through two fields to a place where he thought there was a cottage. But
when he got there, the cottage was empty--no lights--and the door
padlocked. He laid his father down under the shelter of the cottage, and
called and shouted. Not a sign of help! It was awfully cold--a bitter
north wind--blowing great gusts of rain. Nobody knows quite how long
they were there, but at last they were found by the vicar of the village
near, who was coming home on his bicycle from visiting a sick woman at
the farm. He told me that Douglas had taken off his own coat and a
knitted waistcoat he wore, and had wrapped his father in them. He was
sitting on the ground with his back to the cottage wall, holding Sir
Arthur in his arms. The boy himself was weak with cold and misery. The
vicar said he should never forget his white face, when he found them
with his lamp, and the light shone on them. Douglas was bending over his
father, imploring him to speak to him--in the tenderest, sweetest way.
Then, of course, when the vicar, Mr. Burton, had got a cart and taken
them to the farm, and a carriage had come from Flood with two doctors,
and Sir Arthur had begun to recover his senses, Douglas--looking like a
ghost--was very soon ordering everybody about in his usual lordly
manner. 'He slanged the farmer,' said Mr. Burton, 'for being slow with
the cart; he sent me off on errands as though I'd been his groom; and
when the docto