And woe,' he went on with an almost prophetic solemnity in his tone and gesture--'woe to those who do these things! and woe to those also who, though they dare not do them themselves, yet excuse and defend them who dare, just because the world calls them gentlemen, and not tyrants and oppressors.' He turned to go.

The squire, bursting with passion, sprang up with a terrible oath, turned deadly pale, staggered, and dropped senseless on the floor.
They all rushed to lift him up.

Tregarva was the first to take him in his arms and place him tenderly in his chair, where he lay back with glassy eyes, snoring heavily in a fit of apoplexy.
'Go; for God's sake, go,' whispered Lancelot to the keeper, 'and wait for me at Lower Whitford.

I must see you before you stir.' The keeper slipped away sadly.

The ladies rushed in--a groom galloped off for the doctor--met him luckily in the village, and, in a few minutes, the squire was bled and put to bed, and showed hopeful signs of returning consciousness.