There was the white hand with its diamond-ring clutching the dark leaves.

His eyes were half open, but did not heed the gleam of sunlight that darted itself directly on them from between the boughs.
Still he might only have fainted; it might only be a fit.

Sir Christopher knelt down, unfastened the cravat, unfastened the waistcoat, and laid his hand on the heart.

It might be syncope; it might not--it could not be death.

No! that thought must be kept far off.
'Go, Bates, get help; we'll carry him to your cottage.