By the fire, seated on a backless kitchen chair, sat a man, grey of head and bent of shoulder; but even in the firelight his eyes were keen and steely—large bright-blue eyes that shone under thick grey eyebrows. His face, with its bright, stubborn eyes and tight mouth, was—for all its dirt—the face of a man who gave orders; and it did not escape the prisoner that the others—the crowd that was thrusting and packing itself into the room—were one and all silent till he spoke.
“Come nearer,” he said—and on the word, Theodore was pushed close to him. “Let him go”—and Theodore was loosed. Someone, at a sign, lit a stick from the heap beside the fire and held it aloft; and for a moment, till it flared itself out, there was silence, while the old man peered at the stranger. With the sudden light the hustling and jostling ceased, and the crowd, like Theodore, waited on the old man’s words.
“Tell me,” at last came the order, “what you were doing here. Tell me everything”—and he lifted a dirty lean finger like a threat—“what you were doing on our land, where you came from, what you want? … and speak the truth or it will be the worse for you.”
Theodore told him; while the steel-blue eyes searched his face as well as they might in the semidarkness and the half-seen crowd stood mute. He told of his life as it had been lived with Ada; of their complete separation from their fellows for the space of nearly two years; of the coming of the child and the consequent need of help for his wife—conscious, all the time, not only of the questioning, unshrinking eyes of his judge but of the other eyes that watched him suspiciously from the corners and shadows of the room. Two or three times he faltered in his telling, oppressed by the long, steady silence; for throughout there was no comment, no word of interest or encouragement—only once, when he paused in the hope of encouragement, the old man ordered “Go on!” … He went on, striving to steady his voice and pleading against he knew not what of hostility, suspicion and fear.
“… And so,” he ended uncertainly, “they found me. I wasn’t doing any harm. … I suppose they saw my fire? …”
From someone in the darkness behind him came a grunt that might indicate assent—then, again, there was silence that lasted. … The dumb, heavy threat of it was suddenly intolerable and Theodore broke it with vehemence.
“For God’s sake tell me what you’re going to do! It’s not much I ask and it’s not for myself I ask it. If you can’t help me yourselves there must be other people who can—tell me where I am and where I ought to go. My wife—she must have help.”
There was no actual response to his outburst, but some of the half-seen figures stirred and he heard a muttering in the shadow that he took for the voices of women.
“Tell me where I am,” he repeated, “and where I can go for help.”
It was the first question only that was answered.
“You are on our land.”
“Your land—but where is it? In what part of England?”
“I don’t know,” said the old man and shrugged his lean shoulders. “But you haven’t any right on it. It’s ours.”
He pushed back his chair and stood up to his full, tall height; then, raising his hand, addressed the assembly of his followers.
“You have all of you heard what he said and know what he wants. Now let me hear what you think. Say it out loud and not in each other’s ears.”
He dropped his arm and stood waiting a reply—and after a moment one came from the back of the room.
“It’s winter,” said a man’s voice, half-sulky, half-defiant, “and we’ve hardly enough left for ourselves. We don’t want any more mouths here—we’ve more than we can fill as it is.” A murmur of agreement encouraged him and he went on—louder and pushing through the crowd as he spoke. “We fend for our own and he must fend for his. He ought to think himself lucky if we let him go after we’ve taken him on our land. What business had he there?”
This time the murmur of agreement was stronger and a second voice called over it:
“If we catch him here again he won’t get off so easily!”
The assent that followed was more than assent; applause that swelled and grew almost clamorous. The old man stilled it with a lifting of his knotted hand.
“Then you won’t have him here? You don’t want him?”
The “No” in answer was vigorous; refusal, it seemed, was unanimous. Theodore tried to speak, to explain that all he asked … but again the knotted hand was lifted.
“And are you—for letting him go?”
The words dropped out slowly and were followed by a hush—significant as the question itself. … This much was clear to the listener: that behind them lay a fear and a threat. The nature of the threat could be guessed at—since they would not keep him and dared not let him go; but where and what was the motive for the fear that had prompted the slow, sly question and the uneasy silence that followed it? … He heard his own heartbeats in the long uneasy silence—while he sought in vain for the reason of their dread of one man and tried in vain to find words. It seemed
