drooped on the animal's back, and then made one more effort, which proving ineffectual, he sank back on to the bank, where I left him, reposing his head on the oozy turf, and, to all appearance, as calmly reclining as if he had been taking his rest on the sofa at home.
I ought to have helped him in spite of himself—to have bound up the wound he was unable to stanch, and insisted upon getting him on to his horse and seeing him safe home; but, besides my bitter indignation against himself, there was the question what to say to his servants,—and what to my own family. Either I should have to acknowledge the deed, which would set me down as a madman, unless I acknowledged the motive too—and that seemed impossible,—or I must get up a lie, which seemed equally out of the question—especially as Mr. Lawrence would probably reveal the whole truth, and thereby bring me to tenfold disgrace,—unless I were villain enough, presuming on the absence of witnesses, to persist
