Somehow, in that instant of waiting, the proverb was forgotten; he felt that fate would decide for him.

"It shall be this one!" he said aloud,--"this one!" Then the horse seemed upon him; he did not know when he made that jump at the bridle, or felt the iron hoof strike his breast; he had only a confused sense of seeing the gray figure thrown out upon the ground just as he found himself falling backwards.
Then he lost consciousness.
When he came to himself, and saw the trees and bushes dance strangely about him for a moment, he found that he had been lifted over to the grass at the roadside, and that Gifford Woodhouse's arm was under his head.

As his eyes grew steady, he saw that two men were holding the trembling, steaming horse, and that a little group of people were standing about the phaeton; but the gray figure had disappeared.
Gifford was fanning him, and pressing something to his lips with a gentle, anxious hand.
"Gifford," he said faintly--"ah--which ?" "They are neither of them hurt, thank God," answered the young man reverently, "but they owe their lives to you, Mr.Denner." "Yes--but"-- he struggled to say--"which--which was it ?" "He means who was it," said the rector, who had taken his place on the other side of the injured man.

"It was my daughter--God bless you, Denner!--and Mrs.Forsythe." Mr.Denner groaned, and shut his eyes.

"Oh, it wasn't either," he murmured; "that's always the way!" "His mind is wandering," Gifford said, in a low voice.