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“No, he’s commin’ to; I tell you he is,” said the labourer.

“He’s not dea-ed, he’s not dea-ed,” came the passionate, strange sing-song of the foreign girl.”He’s not dead–no-o.”

“He wants some brandy–look at the colour of his lips,” said the crisp, cold voice of Henry.”Can you fetch some?”

“Wha-at? Fetch?” Fräulein did not understand.

“Brandy,” said Henry, very distinct.

“Brrandy!” she re-echoed.

“You go, Bill,” groaned the father.

“Aye, I’ll go,” replied Bill, and he ran across the field.

Maurice was not dead, nor going to die. This Geoffrey now realized. He was glad after all that the extreme penalty was revoked. But he hated to think of himself going on. He would always shrink now. He had hoped and hoped for the time when he would be careless, bold as Maurice, when he would not wince and shrink. Now he would always be the same, coiling up in himself like a tortoise with no shell.

“Ah-h! He’s getting better!” came the wild voice of the Fräulein, and she began to cry, a strange sound, that startled the men, made the animal bristle within them. Geoffrey shuddered as he heard, between her sobbing, the impatient moaning of his brother as the breath came back.

The labourer returned at a run, followed by the Vicar. After the brandy, Maurice made more moaning, hiccuping noise. Geoffrey listened in torture. He heard the Vicar asking for explanations. All the united, anxious voices replied in brief phrases.

“It was that other,” cried the Fräulein.”He knocked him over–Ha!”

She was shrill and vindictive.

“I don’t think so,” said the father to the Vicar, in a quite audible but private tone, speaking as if the Fräulein did not understand his English.

The Vicar addressed his children’s governess in bad German. She replied in a torrent which he would not confess was too much for him. Maurice was making little moaning, sighing noises.

“Where’s your pain, boy, eh?” the father asked, pathetically.

“Leave him alone a bit,” came the cool voice of Henry.”He’s winded, if no more.”

“You’d better see that no bones are broken,” said the anxious Vicar.

“It wor a blessing as he should a dropped on that heap of hay just there,” said the labourer.”If he’d happened to ha’ catched hisself on this nog o’ wood ‘e wouldna ha’ stood much chance.”

Geoffrey wondered when he would have courage to venture down. He had wild notions of pitching himself head foremost from the stack: if he could only extinguish himself, he would be safe. Quite frantically, he longed not to be. The idea of going through life thus coiled up within himself in morbid self-consciousness, always lonely, surly, and a misery, was enough to make him cry out. What would they all think when they knew he had knocked Maurice off that high stack?

They were talking to Maurice down below. The lad had recovered in great measure, and was able to answer faintly.

“Whatever was you doin’?” the father asked gently.”Was you playing about with our Geoffrey?–Aye, and where is he?”

Geoffrey’s heart stood still.

“I dunno,” said Henry, in a curious, ironic tone.

“Go an’ have a look,” pleaded the father, infinitely relieved over one son, anxious now concerning the other. Geoffrey could not bear that his eldest brother should climb up and question him in his high-pitched drawl of curiosity. The culprit doggedly set his feet on the ladder. His nailed boots slipped a rung.

“Mind yourself,” shouted the overwrought father.

Geoffrey stood like a criminal at the foot of the ladder, glancing furtively at the group. Maurice was lying, pale and slightly convulsed, upon a heap of hay. The Fräulein was kneeling beside his head. The Vicar had the lad’s shirt full open down the breast, and was feeling for broken ribs. The father kneeled on the other side, the labourer and Henry stood aside.

“I can’t find anything broken,” said the Vicar, and he sounded slightly disappointed.

“There’s nowt broken to find,” murmured Maurice, smiling.

The father started.”Eh?” he said.”Eh?” and he bent over the invalid.

“I say it’s not hurt me,” repeated Maurice.

“What were you doing?” asked the cold, ironic voice of Henry. Geoffrey turned his head away: he had not yet raised his face.

“Nowt as I know on,” he muttered in a surly tone.

“Why!” cried Fräulein in a reproachful tone.”I see him–knock him over!” She made a fierce gesture with her elbow. Henry curled his long moustache sardonically.