Crown and Sceptre Part 87

Fred felt dizzy as he listened to his companion's careless utterance, and he asked himself whether he should tell him what he thought. Twice over he was on the point of speaking, but he clung to the hope that his ideas might be only fancy, and he stood there turning icily cold.

The idea seemed so terrible--to stoop down there in that utter darkness and touch the form of the poor fellow who had been left in despair and loneliness to die, untended and without a soul to whom he could say a farewell word. No; he could not do it, and he felt as if he must turn and rush out of the wood.

"Feel him, Master Fred?" whispered Samson.

Again the sensation of cold and dread came over Fred, and he was about to yield to it and hurry away, when his determination mastered, and, setting his teeth fast, he bent down, went upon hands and knees, and felt on before him, letting his hand sink slowly so as to reverently touch him who he felt must be lying dead.

"Well, sir--got him?"

"No!" whispered Fred, hoa.r.s.ely, as his hand touched the twigs and leaves.

"Try again, sir."

Fred crept on, and again stretched out his hand.

"Now you have him, sir?"

"No," said Fred, with a throb of excitement sending a thrill through him; "he is not here."

"There, what did I tell you!" said Samson, in a satisfied tone. "You would be so obstinate. This aren't the place."

"But it is," whispered Fred. "I can feel where he laid. The twigs are all levelled down."

"Nonsense, sir!"

"I tell you I am right; it's the hole he made for himself. This is the place, and--Hah!"

"Got him?"

"No; but here is your jerkin that you left to cover him."

"Then you are right, sir. Well, feel about more."

"I cannot get any further. This is the place, and he has either been found, or he has crept away, and--Yes, that's it; he hasn't had strength to creep back."

"Then we must call again."

"Yes."

Samson repeated his cry, over and over again, without result, and then, Fred having rejoined him, they stood listening.

"We cannot find him to-night, Samson."

"No, sir. Well, it doesn't much matter. He's ever so much better, or he wouldn't have gone out for a walk. Here, let's sit down and eat this here bread and chicken, and drink the cider, sir. I feel as if I hadn't had anything for a week, and the food has been b.u.mping about my lips and asking to go in ever since we started. I'm glad now I brought it, but I've been sorry I was so stupid all along."

"Do you think we could find him if we searched?" said Fred, ignoring his companion's remark about the food.

"Sure we couldn't, sir, without a lanthorn; and if we had one we durstn't use it. Let's set down and have a bite."

"No, no. Look here! If he has crept away, he is sleeping somewhere not far off, and he is sure to come back. Give me the food, and I'll lay it in there ready for him. He'll find it when it's light."

"Put it there, sir?"

"Yes."

"But the slugs and snails and beetles and things 'll come and eat it all before morning. Don't let's waste good food, sir, like that."

"Do as I bid you, sir. Give me the food."

Samson sighed and obeyed. The bread and fowl were placed with the bottle on the jerkin at the far end of the little tunnel where Nat had lain, and Fred backed out.

"Come," he said laconically.

Samson grunted dismally, and followed his leader; and after they had struggled out of the wilderness, they made their way back to camp without any further check than a challenge or two, the pa.s.sword enabling them to reach the tent not long before morning dawned.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

BAITING A TRAP.

"Yes, my boy; sad, sad indeed," said Colonel Forrester. "I would have given anything to have prevented it."

Father and son were walking round the ruins of the Hall, which were still too heated to allow of approach, while from the heap of _debris_ within a thin filmy smoke arose.

"Do you think there is any hope, father?" said Fred, after a long pause.

Colonel Forrester looked at him quickly.

"I mean of Sir G.o.dfrey and poor Scar being alive?"

Colonel Forrester did not reply, but turned away with his brow full of deep furrows; and feeling as if everything like happiness was at an end, Fred turned away from the scene of desolation, and walked up toward the little camp on the hill, wondering how it would be possible to convey the terrible tidings to the two who must be suffering a very martyrdom of anxiety at the Manor.

"I could not do it. I dare not," muttered Fred. "And besides, it is too soon. There may be hope."

But as he said those last words to himself, he pictured the wounded father defended by his son, and then the rus.h.i.+ng flames, and he groaned in spirit as he felt how hopeless it all seemed.

"Heard all the news, Master Fred, I s'pose?"

Fred started, for he had not heard the approach of Samson.

"No; I have heard nothing. I have been with my father at the ruins."

"I was there at 'bout six o'clock, sir. Couldn't have thought the old place would have burnt so fast."

"But you said news, Samson?" cried Fred, eagerly. "Not news of them?"

"No, sir; not news of them," replied Samson, sadly. "News of our stopping here for the present."

"No."