By this time the noise of my fall had brought up the servants.  They lifted me into bed and proposed fetching our medical man.  But I forbade them to do so, and said, ‘I want to speak to my mother.’

‘She is herself unwell, sir,’ said the man to whom I spoke.

‘I know,’ I replied.  ’Call her maid and tell her that my business with my mother is very important, or I would not have dreamed of disturbing her; but see her I must.’

The man looked dubious, but observing my wet clothes on a chair he seemed to think that something had happened, and went to do my bidding.

In a very short time my mother entered the room.  I felt that my moments of consciousness were brief, and began my story as soon as we were alone.  I told her how the sudden dread that Wynne would steal the amulet had come upon me; I told her how I had run down to the churchyard and discovered the landslip; I told her how, on seeing the landslip, I had descended the gangway and found the body of Wynne, the amulet, the casket, and the written curse.  But I did not tell her that I had met Winifred on the sands.  Excited as I was, I had the presence of mind not to tell her that.

As I proceeded with my narrative, with my mother sitting by my bedside, a look of horror, then a look of loathing, then a look of scorn, swept over her face.  I knew that the horror was of the sacrilege.  I knew that the loathing and the haughty scorn expressed her feeling towards the despoiler—­the father of her whose cause I might have to plead; and I began to wish from the bottom of my heart that I had not taken her into my confidence.  When I got to the finding of Tom’s body, and the look of terror stamped upon his face, a new expression broke over hers—­an expression of triumphant hate that was fearful.

‘Thank God at least for that!’ she said.  Then she murmured, ’But that does not atone.’

Ah! how I regretted now that I had consulted her on a subject where her proud imperious nature must be so deeply disturbed.  But it was too late to retreat.

‘Henry,’ she said, ’this is a shocking story you tell me.  After losing my husband this is the worst that could have happened to me—­the violation of his sacred tomb.  Had I only hearkened to my own misgiving about the miscreant!  Yet I wonder you did not wait till the morning before telling me.’

‘Wait till the morning?’ I said, forgetting that she did not know what was at my heart.

‘Doubtless the matter is important, Henry,’ said she.  ’Still, the mischief is done, the hideous crime has been committed, and the news of it could have waited till morning.’

’But, mother, unless my father’s words are idle breath, it is important, most important, that the amulet should again be buried with him.  I meant to go to the sands in the morning and wait for the ebbing tide—­I meant to take the cross from the breast of the dead man, and to replace it in my father’s coffin.  That, mother, was what I meant to do.  But I am too ill to move; I feel that in an hour or so, or in a few minutes, I shall be delirious.  And then, mother!  Oh, then!—­’My mother looked astonished at my vehemence upon the subject.