barns, around seemed to his weary sense oppressive in their nearness.
The waggon disappeared down the dark lane. The farmer talked more
roughly, now that kindness no longer restrained him, of the night's
event. Trenholme leaned against a white-washed wall, silent but not
listening. He almost wondered he did not faint with the pain in his
ankle; the long strain he had put upon the hurt muscle rendered it
almost agonising, but faintness did not come: it seldom does to those
who sigh for it, as for the wings of a dove, that they may go far away
with it and be at rest. The farmer shut the stable door, put out the
light, and Trenholme limped out the house with him to wait for his
brother.




CHAPTER XXIV.


All this time Alec was walking, like a sentry, up and down beside the
old man's corpse. He was not alone. When the others had gone he found
that the young American had remained with him. He came back from the
lower trees whence he had watched the party disappear.

"Come to think of it," he said, "I'll keep you company."

Something in his manner convinced Alec that this was no second thought;
he had had no intention of leaving. He was a slight fellow, and,
apparently too tired now to wish to stand or walk longer, he looked
about him for a seat. None offered in the close vicinity of the corpse
and Alec, its sentinel; but, equal to his own necessity, he took a