We got him down-stairs--he was very lame--his ruddy face all drawn
and white with pain; but he did not speak one word of opposition, or
utter a groan of complaint.

The flour-mill was built on piles, in the centre of the narrow river.
It was only a few steps of bridge-work to either bank. The little
door was on the Norton Bury side, and was hid from the opposite
shore, where the rioters had now collected. In a minute we had crept
forth, and dashed out of sight, in the narrow path which had been
made from the mill to the tan-yard.

"Will you take my arm? we must get on fast."

"Home?" said my father, as John led him passively along.

"No, sir, not home: they are there before you. Your life's not safe
an hour--unless, indeed, you get soldiers to guard it."

Abel Fletcher gave a decided negative. The stern old Quaker held to
his principles still.

"Then you must hide for a time--both of you. Come to my room. You
will be secure there. Urge him, Phineas--for your sake and his own."

But my poor broken-down father needed no urging. Grasping more
tightly both John's arm and mine, which, for the first time in his
life, he leaned upon, he submitted to be led whither we chose. So,
after this long interval of time, I once more stood in Sally Watkins'
small attic; where, ever since I first brought him there, John
Halifax had lived.