a warm stream.

A horrible thought rushed through his brain. He was at the mercy of
that woman who had invoked the Devil against him, and of the lover
on whose account she had desired his death. She had called, and in
part had been answered. He was wounded, and incapable of defending
himself. This guilty pair would complete the work, kill him; blow
out his brains, beat his head with the stock of the gun, and cast
his body into the marsh.

Who would know how he came by his death? His sister was aware that
he had gone to the moor to stalk deer. What evidence would be
producible against this couple should they complete the work and
dispose of him?

Strangely unaccountable as it may seem, yet it was so, that at the
moment, rage at the thought that, should they kill him, Mehetabel
and Iver would escape punishment, was the prevailing thought and
predominant passion in Jonas's mind, and not by any means fear for
himself. This made him disregard his pain, indifferent to his fate.

"I have still my right hand and my teeth," he said. "I will beat
and tear that they may bear marks that shall awake suspicion."

But his head swam, he turned sick and faint, and became insensible.

When Jonas recovered consciousness he lay on his back, and saw faces
bowed over him--that of his wife and that of Iver, the two he hated
most cordially in the world, the two at least he hated to see
together.

He struggled to rise and bite, like a wild beast, but was held down
by Iver.

"Curse you! will you kill me so?" he yelled, snapping with his
great jaws, trying to reach and rend the hands that restrained him.

"Lie still, Bideabout," said the young painter, "are you crazed?
We will do you no harm. Mehetabel is binding up your arm. As far
as I can make out the shot has run up it and is lodged in the
shoulder."

"I care not. Let me go. You will murder me." Mehetabel had torn a
strip from her skirt and was making a bandage of it.

"Jonas," she said, "pray lie quiet, or sit up and be reasonable.
I must do what I can to stay the blood."

As he began to realize that he was being attended to, and that
Iver and Mehetabel had no intention to hurt him, the Broom-Squire
became more composed and patient.

His brows were knit and his teeth set. He avoided looking into the
faces of those who attended to him.

Presently the young painter helped him to rise, and offered his
arm. This Jonas refused.

"I can walk by myself," said he, churlishly; th