"His confession was honest enough, anyhow.

Poor fool! he's safe in hospital for a week, and his friends, if he has any, and they know what it means, will pray for that week to be prolonged." "What does it mean ?" Dorothea managed to ask.
"It means Dartmoor." Dorothea's candlestick shook in her hand, and the extinguisher fell on the floor.

Her brother picked it up and restored it.
"Naturally," he murmured with brotherly concern, "your nerves! It has been a trying night, but you comported yourself admirably, Dorothea.
Ibbetson assures me he could not have tied the bandage better himself.
I felt proud of my sister." He kissed her gallantly and pulled out his watch.

"Past twelve o'clock!--time they were round with the barouche.
The sooner we get Master Raoul down to the Infirmary and pack him in bed, the better." As Dorothea went up the stairs she heard the sound of wheels on the gravel.
She could not accept his sacrifice.

No; a way must be found to save him, and in her prayers that night she began to seek it.