“What is the matter?” he said; then, recollecting himself and trying to move his head—­“Oh!  I have had a tumble.  Give me some water to drink.”  There was a sigh of relief from every one present as he spoke, quite naturally, and I held the lota to his lips.  “What became of the ball?” he asked quickly, as he sat up.  Then turning round, he saw the beautiful girl kneeling at his side.  The blood rushed violently to his face, and his eyes, a moment ago dim with unconsciousness, flashed brightly.  “What!  Miss Westonhaugh—­you?” he bounded to his feet, but would have fallen back if I had not caught him in my arms, for he was still dizzy from the heavy blow that had stunned him.  The blood came and went in his cheeks, and he hung on my arm confused and embarrassed, looking on the ground.

“I really owe you all manner of apologies—­” he began.

“Not a bit of it, my dear boy,” broke in Ghyrkins, “my niece was nearest to you when you fell, and so she came up and did the right thing, like the brave girl she is.”  The old fellow helped her to rise as he said this, and he looked so pleased and proud of her that I was delighted with him.  “And now,” he went on, “we must see how much you are hurt—­the deuce of a knock, you know, enough to kill you—­and if you are not able to ride, why, we will carry you home, you know; the devil of a way off it is, too, confound it all.”  As he jerked out his sentences he was feeling the back of Isaacs’ head, to ascertain, if he could, how much harm had been done.  All this time the man who had done the mischief was standing by, looking very penitent, and muttering sentences of apology as he tried to perform any little office for his victim that came in his way.  Isaacs stretched out his arm, while Ghyrkins was feeling and twisting his head, and taking the man’s hand, held it a moment.

“My dear sir,” he said, “I am not in the least hurt, I assure you, and it was my fault for crossing you at such a moment.  Please do not think anything more about it.”  He smiled kindly at the young fellow, who seemed very grateful, and who from that day on would have risked everything in the world for him.  I heard behind me the voice of Kildare, soliloquising softly.

“Faith,” said he, “that fellow is a gentleman if I ever saw one.  I am afraid I should not have let that infernal duffer off so easily.  By-the-bye, Isaacs,” he said aloud, coming up to us, “you know you won the game.  Nobody stopped the ball after you hit it, and the saices say it ran right through the goal.  So cheer up; you have got something for your pains and your tumble.”  It was quite true; the phlegmatic saices had watched the ball instead of the falling man.  Miss Westonhaugh, who was really a sensible and self-possessed young woman, and had begun to be sure that the accident would have no serious results, expressed the most unbounded delight.

“Thank you, Miss Westonhaugh,” said Isaacs; “you have kept your promise; you have crowned the victor.”