As soon, therefore, as he came to the turning towards Sutton Leigh, he made a decided dash in that direction.  Fred pulled him sharply, and a little nervously; the horse resisted; Fred gave him a cut with the whip, but Dumple felt that he had the advantage, and replying with a demonstration of kicking, suddenly whisked round the corner, and set off over the rough jolting road at a pace very like running away.  Fred pulled hard, but the horse went the faster.  He stood up.  “Sit still,” cried Beatrice, now speaking for the first time, “the gate will stop him;” but ere the words were uttered, Frederick, whether by a movement of his own, or the rapid motion of the carriage, she knew not, was thrown violently to the ground; and as she was whirled on, she saw him no more.  Instinct, rather than presence of mind, made her hold fast to the carriage with one hand, and throw the other arm round little Willy, to prevent him from being thrown out, as they were shaken from side to side by the ruts and stones over which they were jolted.  A few minutes more, and their way was barred by a gate—­that which she had spoken of--the horse, used to stopping there, slackened his pace, and stood still, looking over it as if nothing had happened.

Trembling in every limb, Beatrice stood safely on the ground, and Willy beside her.  Without speaking, she hurried back to seek for Fred, her steps swifter than they had ever before been, though to herself it seemed as if her feet were of lead, and the very throbbing of her heart dragged her back.  In every bush she fancied she saw Fred coming to meet her, but it was only for a moment, and at length she saw him but too plainly.  He was stretched at full length on the ground, senseless--motionless.  She sank rather than knelt down beside him, and called him; but not a token was there that he heard her.  She lifted his hand, it fell powerless, and clasping her own, she sat in an almost unconscious state of horror, till roused by little Willy, who asked in a terrified breathless whisper,

“Bee, is he dead?”

“No, no, no,” cried she, as if she could frighten away her own fears; “he is only stunned.  He is—­he must be alive.  He will come to him-self!  Help me to lift him up—­here—­that is it—­his head on my lap—­”

“O, the blood!” said Willy, recoiling in increased fear, as he saw it streaming from one or two cuts and bruises on the side of the face.

“That is not the worst,” said Beatrice.  “There—­hold him toward the wind.”  She raised his head, untied his handkerchief, and hung over him; but there was not a sound, not a breath; his head sank a dead weight on her knee.  She locked her hands together, and gazed wildly round for help; but no one all over the wide lonely common could be seen, except Willy, who stood helplessly looking at her.

“Aunt Mary!  O, Aunt Mary!” cried she, in a tone of the bitterest anguish of mind.  “Fred—­dear, dear Freddy, open your eyes, answer me!  Oh, only speak to me!  O what shall I do?”