"Such a storm as never was," the latter volunteered. "The telegraph
wires are all down for miles and miles. There won't be no trains
running along this line come many a week, and as for trees--why,
it's as though some one had been playing ninepins in Squire
Fellowes's park. When the morning do come, for sure there will be
things to be seen. This way, sir. Be careful of the gate."

They staggered along down the lane, climbing once over a tree
which lay across the lane and far into the adjoining field. Soon
they were joined by more of the villagers, roused from their beds
by rumours of terrible happenings. The little, single-storey,
ivy-covered inn was all lit up and the door held firmly open. They
passed through the narrow entrance and into the stone-flagged
barroom, where the men laid down their stretcher. As many of the
villagers as could crowd in filled the passage. Gerald sank into
a chair. The sudden absence of wind was almost disconcerting. He
felt himself once more in danger of fainting. He was only vaguely
conscious of drinking hot milk, poured from a jug by a red-faced
and sympathetic woman. Its restorative effect, however, was
immediate and wonderful. The mist cleared from before his eyes,
his brain began to work. Always in the background the horror and
the shame were there, the shame which kept his hand pressed with
unnatural strength upon the broken lock of that dressing-case.
He sat a little apart from the others and listened. Above the
confused murmur of voices he could hear the doctor's comment and
brief orders, as he rose to his feet after examining the unconscious
man.

"An ordinary concussion," he declared. "I must get round and see