And therewith I raised him up and made him take another drink of the strong waters, and so got him to his horse at last, and walked by his side to support him, leading my own horse by the bridle. In this way we went forward to Peterborough, the man now and then groaning with pain, and at times looking at me with the same look of fear in his face which had come there as soon as he had opened his eyes and seen me bending over him.
XLV
Of the Strange Man’s Confession
By the time we reached the inn where I had stayed when I passed through Peterborough on my journey to London, the stranger’s illness was much increased, so that it was all I could do to keep him upright upon his horse. The host of the inn was at first opposed to admitting him; for the man, he said, looked like death, and he wanted no death in his house. Upon my promising to pay him well for whatever trouble he and his were put to, he altered his tone, and we presently carried the sick man to a chamber which they had hastily made ready for him, and there he was laid in bed while the ostler went to seek the apothecary.
Having thus seen my charge comfortably disposed of, I made my way to the inn parlour and gave orders for my supper, for which I had gotten a keen appetite. While they made it ready I fell amusing by the hearth, my mind being full of the strange events of the last few days. Never had I passed through such exciting incidents as those which occurred on the day of the King’s execution. To see his Majesty suffer was terrible enough, but I think the death of Dennis Watson had moved me even more than the scene before Whitehall. For bitterly as he had wronged me, and bound as I was to punish him, I could not help reflecting upon the change which had come over him since the time he left his father’s house. In the old days he had been a fine-looking man, whom the maidens were wont to admire for his handsome countenance, and at that time I do not think he would have run away from me or from any other man. But when I saw him dead at my feet I noticed that his good looks were gone, and his face was worn and discoloured by hard living and drinking, and his hair was thickly shot with gray; and I reflected that he had not had spirit to meet me fairly, but must needs fly from me like a thief, whereby he met his ignominious death. Yet his old craft and malice had been strong in him till the end, for he had striven to shoot me as I followed him down the dark alley. However, he was now dead, and had come to his end in a shameful manner, and so he would never more trouble me or mine.
While I thus mused the apothecary came downstairs from visiting the sick man, and made his way to me. He was a short, stout gentleman, carrying a snuffbox in his hand, the lid of which he frequently tapped while he was speaking. He took a seat near me and spread out his plump legs to the fire.
“Your friend, sir,” said he, “is very sick. How long hath he been in his present state?”
“Indeed, sir,” I answered, “I know little more about him than you do. I found him lying by the roadside two miles away, with all his senses gone, and had hard work, I assure you, to get him to his horse again.”
“Then, he is no friend of yours?” said he.
“No,” said I. “I once saw him, some four years ago, at a wayside inn, but more than that I know not. I neither know his name, nor where he comes from, nor where he was going.”
“Ah!” said the apothecary. “Well, sir, the man is going to die. He will be dead before the afternoon is over.”
“Yea,” said the landlord, who had come over to where we sat. “That is just what I said. However, master, you will see that I am paid for my trouble?”
“I shall keep my word,” I answered, and set to work at my supper, which was just then placed before me.
“I can do naught for the man,” said the apothecary. “So if you will pay me my fee, master, I will go home again.”
And therewith, haying got his money, away he went, and I was left with the sick man on my hands, and the prospect of being delayed a day or two on my journey. This was not agreeable to my wishes; but I remembered that I could not have left the man on the roadside to die, so I ate my supper in peace and resolved to see the matter out.
When the apothecary had gone his ways, I had persuaded the hostess to go up to the sick man’s chamber and stay with him, for it seemed hard to me that he should be left alone when death was so near him. So away she went, but came back before I had finished eating to tell me that the man was in a sad way, and wished to speak with me at once.
Upon entering the chamber in which we had put him to bed, I found the sick man sitting upright against his pillow. His senses had now come back to him, and he seemed as much alive to what was going on around him as I was. But when I drew near to the bedside and inquired what I could do for him, the same look of horror
