“I can do no more,” he said bitterly, leaning his head against the wall of the house.  “There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by telling him all.  My poor Madge!  My poor Madge!”

A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and there appeared great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with a sudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain.  The warm yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and, turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a fire-worshipper.

“I accept the omen of the dawn,” he cried, “for her life and for mine.”

CHAPTER XXV.

WHAT DR. CHINSTON SAID.

His resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under his feet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Madge of his intended departure.

The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there, and, guided by the sound of merry voices, and the laughter of pretty women, soon found his way to the lawn—­tennis ground.  Madge and her guests were there, seated under the shade of a great witch elm, and watching, with great interest, a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players.  Mr. Frettlby was not present.  He was inside writing letters, and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence.  Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off.

“How good of you to come,” she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm, “and on such a hot day.”

“Yes, it’s something fearful in the shade,” said pretty Mrs. Rolleston, with a laugh, putting up her sunshade.

“Pardon me if I think the contrary,” replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree.

Mrs. Rolleston blushed and shook her head.

“Ah! it’s easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she observed, as she resumed her seat.  “You are making Madge jealous.”

“So he is,” answered Madge, with a gay laugh.  “I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks.”

“Here he comes, then,” said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined the group under the tree.  Though in tennis flannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing aside his racket, Mr. Rolleston sat down with a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness it’s over, and that I have won,” he said, wiping his heated brow; “galley slaves couldn’t have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat Sub TEGMINE FAGI.”

“Which means?” asked his wife, lazily.

“That onlookers see most of the game,” answered her husband, impudently.