Chapter XXI.

Tommy is found and found out.


When Clare woke from his first sleep, which he did within an hour--for
he was too hungry to sleep straight on, and the door, imperfectly
closed by Tommy, had come open, and let in a cold wind with the
moonlight--he raised himself on his elbow, and peered from his stone
shelf into the dreary hut. He could not at once tell where he was, but
when he remembered, his first thought was Tommy. He looked about for
him. Tommy was nowhere. Then he saw the open door, and remembered he
had gone out. Surely it was time he had come back! Stiff and sore, he
turned on his longitudinal axis, crept down from the forge, and went
out shivering to look for his imp. The moon shone radiant on the rusty
iron, and the glamour of her light rendered not a few of its shapes
and fragments suggestive of cruel torture. Picking his way among
spikes and corners and edges, he walked about the hideous wilderness
searching for Tommy, afraid to call for fear of attracting attention.
The hen too was walking about, disconsolate, but she took no notice of
him, neither did the sight of her give him any hint or rouse in him
the least suspicion: how could he suspect one so innocent and troubled
for the avenging genius through whom Tommy's white face lay upturned
to the white moon! Her egg-shells lay scattered, each a ghastly point
in the moonshine, each a silent witness to the deed that had been
done. Tommy scattered and forgot them; the moon gathered and noted
them. But they told Clare nothing, either of Tommy's behaviour or of