It was the dead of night, and very dark, when Barnaby, with hisstumbling comrade, approached the place where he had left hisfather; but he could see him stealing away into the gloom,distrustful even of him, and rapidly retreating. After calling to him twice or thrice that there was nothing to fear, but withouteffect, he suffered Hugh to sink upon the ground, and followed tobring him back.
He continued to creep away, until Barnaby was close upon him; thenturned, and said in a terrible, though suppressed voice:
"Let me go. Do not lay hands upon me. You have told her; and youand she together have betrayed me!"
Barnaby looked at him, in silence.
"You have seen your mother!"
"No," cried Barnaby, eagerly. "Not for a long time--longer than Ican tell. A whole year, I think. Is she here?"
His father looked upon him steadfastly for a few moments, and thensaid--drawing nearer to him as he spoke, for, seeing his face, andhearing his words, it was impossible to doubt his truth:
"What man is that?"
"Hugh--Hugh. Only Hugh. You know him. HE will not harm you.
Why, you"re afraid of Hugh! Ha ha ha! Afraid of gruff, old, noisyHugh!"
"What man is he, I ask you," he rejoined so fiercely, that Barnabystopped in his laugh, and shrinking back, surveyed him with a lookof terrified amazement.
"Why, how stern you are! You make me fear you, though you are myfather. Why do you speak to me so?"
--"I want," he answered, putting away the hand which his son, witha timid desire to propitiate him, laid upon his sleeve,--"I want ananswer, and you give me only jeers and questions. Who have youbrought with you to this hiding-place, poor fool; and where is theblind man?"
"I don"t know where. His house was close shut. I waited, but noperson came; that was no fault of mine. This is Hugh--brave Hugh,who broke into that ugly jail, and set us free. Aha! You like himnow, do you? You like him now!"
"Why does he lie upon the ground?"
"He has had a fall, and has been drinking. The fields and trees goround, and round, and round with him, and the ground heaves underhis feet. You know him? You remember? See!"
They had by this time returned to where he lay, and both stoopedover him to look into his face.
"I recollect the man," his father murmured. "Why did you bring himhere?"
"Because he would have been killed if I had left him over yonder.
They were firing guns and shedding blood. Does the sight of bloodturn you sick, father? I see it does, by your face. That"s likeme--What are you looking at?"
"At nothing!" said the murderer softly, as he started back a paceor two, and gazed with sunken jaw and staring eyes above his son"shead. "At nothing!"
He remained in the same attitude and with the same expression onhis face for a minute or more; then glanced slowly round as if hehad lost something; and went shivering back, towards the shed.
"Shall I bring him in, father?" asked Barnaby, who had looked on,wondering.
He only answered with a suppressed groan, and lying down upon theground, wrapped his cloak about his head, and shrunk into thedarkest corner.
Finding that nothing would rouse Hugh now, or make him sensible fora moment, Barnaby dragged him along the grass, and laid him on alittle heap of refuse hay and straw which had been his own bed;first having brought some water from a running stream hard by, andwashed his wound, and laved his hands and face. Then he lay downhimself, between the two, to pass the night; and looking at thestars, fell fast asleep.
Awakened early in the morning, by the sunshine and the songs ofbirds, and hum of insects, he left them sleeping in the hut, andwalked into the sweet and pleasant air. But he felt that on hisjaded senses, oppressed and burdened with the dreadful scenes oflast night, and many nights before, all the beauties of openingday, which he had so often tasted, and in which he had had suchdeep delight, fell heavily. He thought of the blithe mornings when he and the dogs went bounding on together through the woods andfields; and the recollection filled his eyes with tears. He had noconsciousness, God help him, of having done wrong, nor had he anynew perception of the merits of the cause in which he had beenengaged, or those of the men who advocated it; but he was full ofcares now, and regrets, and dismal recollections, and wishes (quiteunknown to him before) that this or that event had never happened,and that the sorrow and suffering of so many people had beenspared. And now he began to think how happy they would be--hisfather, mother, he, and Hugh--if they rambled away together, andlived in some lonely place, where there were none of thesetroubles; and that perhaps the blind man, who had talked so wiselyabout gold, and told him of the great secrets he knew, could teachthem how to live without being pinched by want. As this occurredto him, he was the more sorry that he had not seen him last night;and he was still brooding over this regret, when his father came,and touched him on the shoulder.
"Ah!" cried Barnaby, starting from his fit of thoughtfulness. "Isit only you?"
"Who should it be?"
"I almost thought," he answered, "it was the blind man. I musthave some talk with him, father."
"And so must I, for without seeing him, I don"t know where to flyor what to do, and lingering here, is death. You must go to himagain, and bring him here."
"Must I!" cried Barnaby, delighted; "that"s brave, father. That"swhat I want to do."
"But you must bring only him, and none other. And though you waitat his door a whole day and night, still you must wait, and notcome back without him."
"Don"t you fear that," he cried gaily. "He shall come, he shallcome."
"Trim off these gewgaws," said his father, plucking the scraps ofribbon and the feathers from his hat, "and over your own dress wearmy cloak. Take heed how you go, and they will be too busy in thestreets to notice you. Of your coming back you need take noaccount, for he"ll manage that, safely."
"To be sure!" said Barnaby. "To be sure he will! A wise man,father, and one who can teach us to be rich. Oh! I know him, Iknow him."
He was speedily dressed, and as well disguised as he could be.
With a lighter heart he then set off upon his second journey,leaving Hugh, who was still in a drunken stupor, stretched upon theground within the shed, and his father walking to and fro before it.